My Sweetest Poison
by Anendda Rysden
Summary: Caught up in Wesker's mystery and intrigue, Claire slowly uncovers a grim secret that could change everything she knows about the man. Now she's falling in love with the Devil, and the line between good and evil has already begun to blur...
1. Chapter 1: Infection

**Chapter 1: Infection**

It was around 3:00 that afternoon when Claire started feeling ill. It was nothing really, just a sour stomach, but it seemed to sap every ounce of her strength. She doggedly kept working, however, clearing dishes and waiting for her shift to be over. Being a waitress at a local restaurant wasn't exactly the most glamorous job in the world, but it was someplace where she could at least pretend that nothing horrific had ever happened in her life. And since Chris vehemently insisted that she continue with her education, she used the money to pay for her tuition as a part-time student at the local community college. Chris and Jill worked hard enough as it was without the extra baggage.

After wiping down the table and refilling the dish of coffee creamer, Claire took the tub of dirty dishes into the kitchen. She was stacking them in the large dishwasher when a surge of nausea forced her to stop and bend over the sink, wondering if she was going to vomit. The last thing she needed right now was to come down with the flu. Chris would worry and stay home from work, and she didn't want that. Taking a deep breath, she turned on the tap and splashed some cold water on her face.

"Hey, Claire? You okay?"

Claire lifted her head to see Todd walking towards her. Todd was a skinny guy just a year older than her, with short, liberally gelled black hair that he wore spiked. Right now he was looking at her in concern. Claire nodded at him. "I'm okay. Just a little upset stomach," she said, straightening up.

"What, you getting sick?"

"Crap, I hope not."

Todd set a tub of dirty dishes on the counter, eyeing her critically. "Well, you're either coming down with some kind of grunge or you seriously need some sun. You look like a vampire," he commented, clearly thinking this was cool. "Let me some _Pepto Bismol_ from the men's. Sit down and take a rest."

"My shift isn't over, you know."

"So what? Jeannie needs the exercise, the toad."

Todd left the kitchen and Claire sank onto a nearby stool, rubbing her queasy stomach. Not for the first time, Claire wondered if Todd's gallant attitude stemmed from a crush. He was an okay sort of guy to work with, but Claire suspected that he was exactly the kind of boyfriend her overprotective brother would chase off the porch with his 9mm. Not that she was interested in Todd. The whole Goth thing wasn't really her style. Still, she was grateful when Todd returned with a cup of full of pink liquid. The bottle was in his other hand, ready to dispense another dose if Claire thought she needed it. Between his fingers, she could see the Maltese cross of the Umbrella Corporation stamped on the ingredient label.

Claire forced herself to swallow the medicine, disgusted by the carefree, innocent taste of bubblegum. After suffering through both Raccoon City and Rockfort Island, Claire hated the corporation with a passion, a hatred only fueled by the fact that they were still around. In the beginning, she and Chris had tried to fight back, forming anti-Umbrella groups and handing out pamphlets detailing their nefarious practices. And for a while it seemed to work. Umbrella's stock had fallen sharply. People demanded answers. And then Ozwell E. Spencer, the founder of the mega-corporation, had turned up dead in his estate. Someone behind the scenes gathered up all the strings, released a few incriminating documents, and placed the blame squarely on the old man's shoulders before pledging Umbrella's nearly unlimited resources to help clean up the mess.

And that someone was Albert Wesker.

Claire would never forget the look on her brother's face when the news announced that Wesker had assumed the position of Umbrella's chairman, a position previously filled by Spencer. In trying to help them cope, Claire had heard dozens of hellish stories from Chris and Jill. Albert Wesker had been the captain of their S.T.A.R.S. unit… and a high-ranking official inside Umbrella, a murderous traitor who'd led the entire S.T.A.R.S. Alpha team to their deaths, but with every news anchor praising Wesker's "bravery" and "compassion", Chris' efforts against the man had been in vain. Without any solid evidence, his ideas joined the likes of Roswell and Bigfoot in just a few short months and the ex-members of S.T.A.R.S. had been forced to move on. Rebecca left to start a new life with Billy, a gentle ex-Marine she'd met during that ill-fated night at the Arklay Mansion, and Leon had gone chasing a police job in Washington DC. Chris, Claire and Jill had moved to a backwater suburb in Utah, where they were currently trying to make the best of things.

And Claire wasn't helping by sitting in the kitchen when she was supposed to be waiting tables. Thanking Todd for the medicine, Claire fixed her ponytail and got back to work. Her stomach did feel marginally better, which was a plus, but she couldn't say she was sorry when her shift was finally up. Punching her timecard, Claire gathered up her leather jacket and went around back. Outside, it was a warm summer evening. A sudden breeze blew dead leaves and glittering cellophane wrappers across the parking lot and the slanting orange sunlight felt good on Claire's cheeks. Maybe Todd was right. She needed to get some tanning oil and sun herself in the front yard for an hour or two.

Walking over to her motorcycle, Claire untied her helmet from the handlebars. The secondhand purple _Harley_ was cheaper than a car and consumed less gas. Besides, Claire found that riding helped her unwind and deal with the stress – and the occasional nightmare. She tried to be strong so not to worry her brother, but it was tough sometimes. She told herself that Chris had his own share of hurts, both physical and mental. Claire had heard the stories. Putting her helmet on, Claire straddled her motorcycle and started the engine, swinging it out onto the freeway. Still feeling ill, she would've liked nothing better than to go straight home and crawl into bed, but Chris would undoubtedly worry. So Claire stopped by _Fred's Chinese_ and picked up dinner first, hoping that Jill hadn't already done the same.

Her ride home was uneventful. Dusk was falling just as she pulled into the driveway of the small house she shared with Chris and Jill. Chris' dark green Subaru _Outback_ was already parked out front. Grasping the bag of Chinese takeout, Claire parked her motorcycle and went in the house. She was greeted by the sound of the TV and the smell of frying chicken.

"Hey, Claire. How was your day?" said Jill as she came into the kitchen. The brunette had flour on her jeans. She'd obviously breaded the chicken herself. Claire gave the older woman a hug and put the Chinese in the fridge, trying not to feel irritable. "Oh, alright. Just a day. I picked this up on my way home, but it looks like dinner's already on."

"Aw, no big deal. We can eat it tomorrow," said Jill, picking up a pair of barbeque tongs and going over to tend the chicken. Chris came out of the living room and gathered his sister up in a crushing bear hug. Ever since they'd moved, he'd been working out almost obsessively and still didn't realize how strong he'd become. Claire didn't mind, though. She hugged him back with a smile.

"You feeling okay, Claire-bear? You look a little off," said Chris.

Crap. Damnation unto older brothers. "I'm not feeling well," Claire reluctantly admitted. "My stomach's been a little queasy."

Chris peered at her worriedly. "Maybe you should lie down before dinner," he suggested.

"Yeah, I'd like to, but I really need a shower. I'll be fine after I eat something." Claire excused herself from the kitchen and went upstairs to the bathroom. She turned the hot water on and let it run while she undressed, pausing to examine a funny bruise-colored mark on her side. Claire frowned and pressed it with a finger. It hurt, but not bad enough to worry about. She wondered how she'd gotten it and had to conclude that she'd bumped into the countertop, although she couldn't remember when. Claire showered quickly, taking a little time at the end to pamper herself with some lotion, and went back downstairs just as Jill was setting the table.

Grabbing a few mugs from the cupboard, Claire poured everybody some milk and sat down to eat. In trying to make their life here more comfortable, Jill had outdone herself with a real home-cooked meal. There was fried chicken and buttered noodles with garlic, and a side of steamed broccoli. Chris eagerly pulled up a chair. "Looks good, Jill. When did you learn to cook?"

"Since I got tired of McDonald's," said Jill, obviously proud of herself. Claire had to admit that dinner was delicious and no longer felt slighted over bringing home takeout. Afterwards, she helped clear the table and do the dishes before heading upstairs to bed, feeling unusually exhausted. Still, dinner had felt special somehow and both Chris and Jill had been in a good mood. It was all she could hope for, and Claire fell asleep thinking that maybe the day hadn't been so bad after all.

It became clear the next morning, however, that Claire was seriously ill. She spent most of the morning hunched over in the bathroom, throwing up what was left of last night's dinner. Her stomach and head were on fire, and there were strange lancing pains in her side. When she failed to appear for breakfast, Chris came upstairs to investigate. She tried to keep him out of the bathroom, not wanting him to see, but her excuses were cut short but another hard bout of vomiting. Chris barged his way in immediately, his eyes wide.

"Claire! Holy crap, are you alright? How long have you been in here?" He dropped down on his knees beside the toilet and grasped Claire's shoulders, wrinkling his nose at the sick floating in the pot. Claire weakly tried to push him back. "I'm… I'm okay, Chris. Stomach bug, remember?" she rasped.

"Yeah, a very large, very nasty stomach bug," said Chris, picking her up and carrying her back to her room. Claire squirmed in embarrassment as he tucked her in and went back down the hall for a damp washcloth. She could hear him calling down the stairs for Jill. "Chris, don't be an moron," she protested when he returned. "You're going to be late for work."

"So?" he demanded, sitting on her bed.

"So I'll be okay. I won't go to work today and I'll stay in bed, I promise."

"Uh-huh, and I'm going to bring the TV up for you to watch… or if you want to go back to sleep it can wait till later." Chris put a damp washcloth over her forehead and handed her a glass of water. It was slightly warm. She suspected it'd come from the bathroom. "A day's wages isn't worth more than my baby sister."

Claire opened her mouth to protest, but then had to lean over the side of the bed. Eyes wide, Chris hastily looked around for something to catch the puke in. Grabbing Claire's wastebasket from her desk, he evicted the trash and placed it under her just in time. After what seemed like forever, Claire laid back with a groan. She couldn't tell who was more relived, her or her brother. Jill came into the room with a spatula in one hand. "Geez, Claire, are you okay?" she asked, looking at the wastebasket.

Claire dragged her blankets up. "Ugh… tell my brother to go to work and stop worrying."

"I would, but I'm worried, too. How long have you been feeling sick?"

"I don't know… A day."

Jill went back downstairs to fetch a proper glass of water – with ice – and Chris was left to nervously smooth his sister's blankets. "I'm not dying, you know," Claire mumbled, keeping her eyes shut to combat her spinning head. "People get sick all the time. It's called life."

"Yeah, I know. It just… it just makes me feel like I can't do anything and I hate it," said Chris.

Claire reached out and gave her brother's hand a squeeze. "You worry too much."

"Think so? Maybe you just don't worry enough."

Claire shrugged and mumbled her thanks when Chris got up to shut the curtains, darkening the room for her. Jill came back with a glass of water and ordered her to sip it slowly. Claire did so gratefully, then lay back down and adjusted the washcloth so it covered her eyes, too. "You really shouldn't hang around me," she mumbled to Chris. "You'll get sick, too."

"Not me. I never get sick."

"Huh. Ever hear of the gloat gods?"

Claire felt rather than saw Chris smile. After making Claire promise to call if she needed anything, Chris went downstairs, but Claire knew that he never did go to work since she could hear the TV. Groaning, she curled up on herself, wishing she'd remembered to ask for an Advil. It felt like there was a fire in her stomach, one that ate at her insides and coiled around her spine. There was a sharp, funny pain in her right arm, too. Not five minutes later, Claire had to sit up and vomit again, but nothing much was forthcoming. Her stomach was running on empty. She took a small sip of water to wash the acid out of her mouth and groaned softly into her pillow.

The day passed with agonizing slowness. Claire tried to be as quiet as she could, but eventually Chris came back upstairs and saw her doubled over on herself, trying not to cry out against the growing pain. Claire could plainly see his panic and she felt horrible for it, but she didn't have the energy to do anything but groan. She was sweating, her body radiating a deep, sick heat and the sheets stuck to her like wet tissues. Chris clumsily picked her up and tried to get a fresh blanket under her.

Then the dreams began.

They were strange and hellish, and so real Claire didn't even realize she _was_ dreaming a lot of the time. Flashes of Raccoon City filled her head. Sometimes she fled through a never-ending hallway, always running but never getting away. Sometimes she ran out of bullets and was killed by a horde of undead, which always woke her with a jolt, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. Chris did the best he could, holding her and telling her that it was just a bad dream, but she would slip under again and dream of ants and horrid parasites. Growing more frightened by the second, Chris called Jill sometime around 1:00 o'clock that afternoon and she left work early.

"Jill, maybe we should take her to the hospital," said Chris, his voice taut.

"You know, I think you're right. She looks really bad," Jill replied, looking ill herself. Chris started to bundle Claire in a blanket, but Jill stopped him, her heart leaping into her throat. "Wait! What the hell is that?"

Claire's arm had slipped out from under the blankets. A grayish-green discoloration encrusted her arm from elbow to wrist, and her veins stuck out like ugly tubes. A lot of the capillaries looked like they'd broken. Chris felt sick and cold and terrified all at once. Jill numbly pointed to Claire's waist and further inspection revealed that the same spreading blemish was on her side.

"My god, Chris, what is it?"

"I… I don't know." Something was pulling Chris back to Rockfort Island, back to Umbrella. He remembered Alexia coming down the stairs towards him, her clothes ripping and bursting into flame. Her body had looked just like what Claire's was becoming. Chris' hand flew to his stomach and he pushed past Jill, stumbling into the bathroom to throw up. This couldn't be happening. It just couldn't be happening! Why now? Why his baby sister?

"Chris?" Jill had followed him into the bathroom looking pale and frightened.

"She's infected," Chris croaked, bending over the sink. "I… I've seen something like that before on Rockfort Island. She… I…" Roaring helplessly, Chris angrily knocked a bunch of toiletries off a nearby shelf. They hit the ground and scattered everywhere. "Those sons-a-bitches," he growled. "Those god damned SONS-A-BITCHES!"

Night fell. Between them, Chris and Jill had decided that taking Claire to the hospital was no longer a viable option, since all the local hospitals were owned by Umbrella. Claire would go straight from the outpatient center to a test tube in some underground facility, of that they were certain. With their problems compounding and Claire's situation getting worse, Chris didn't know what to do. He'd started smoking again and the bottom of his Pepsi glass was soon filled with cigarette butts. Jill couldn't bring herself to scold him. She made a can of soup and tried to get Chris to eat, but all he did was swirl the broth, never taking his eyes off Claire. It wasn't long afterward that she starting screaming.

Claire had been dreaming again. She'd been back in Raccoon City, helpless to fight as one of the undead fisted his hand in her ponytail. His eyes burned like live coals, his teeth had grown pointed, and blood dripped from his mouth to land on her face. As he dipped his head to gnaw at her throat Claire awoke screaming and fighting the blankets. She was aware of Chris trying to hold her, but her vision was blurry and filled with monochrome reds. The room seemed to pitch and heave. "B… behind you!" she gasped, pushing against Chris.

Chris hastily looked back over one shoulder, but there was nothing there. Just the bookcase. "Claire, you're dreaming! There's nothing there!" he said, trying desperately to explain.

"Yes, there is! Why can't you see him?" Claire was so sure there was a zombie smirking down at her over Chris' shoulder. Then, looking up at her brother, she realized that blood was dripping from his mouth, too. Panicking, Claire shoved him hard in the chest, her eyes wild and darting, but Chris held her to his chest until her panic finally subsided. Sobbing raggedly, she fell back into unconsciousness. Unshed tears glistened in Chris' eyes as he stroked his sister's tangled red hair and Jill had to leave the room. Downstairs in the kitchen, the watery grey light of dawn was beginning to appear on the horizon, making the gauzy white drapes take on a faint glow.

Jill felt exhausted and utterly helpless. What were they going to do? She'd seen what had happened to people in Raccoon City when they lost their minds to the T-Virus. At that point, the most merciful thing anyone could do for them was put a bullet in their head. The thought made Jill want to cry. How on earth had Claire gotten infected? It was been nearly a year since Rockfort Island, and Claire had sworn up and down that she'd never been bitten. Sitting at the counter, Jill buried her face in her arms with a moan. It was hard not to cry, but Chris was the one really suffering here and if he hadn't broken down yet then she had no right to. Claire was dying. Slowly maybe, but she was dying. Jill told herself to be strong, but as she rolled her head up, her eyes red, the kitchen phone caught her eye. There was a pad of numbers beside it, but there was no one to call, no one who could possibly help. No one except…

The thought of turning to Wesker for help sickened Jill. He was probably behind the whole sordid affair! But a minute later, Jill found herself holding the phone. The plastic receiver felt like a hundred pounds and threatened to slip from her sweaty hands. If she called Wesker he would come and take Claire away, there was no question about that. But Wesker knew these viruses, how they spread, how they worked, how they could be killed. Jill had a feeling he would keep Claire alive, if only to preserve himself a specimen. She turned the phone around and around in her hands, her stomach knotting up. Wesker had betrayed them… Wesker had worked for Umbrella… Wesker was Umbrella! And even if she did call, who's to say he wouldn't just laugh at her and hang up?

Jill swallowed a hard lump in her throat. Wesker had always kept his word back at the S.T.A.R.S. – provided you were lucky enough to actually receive a promise from him – but Jill knew it'd all been an act. She couldn't trust him to have any honor, but she could trust him to react to a potential biohazard. He would do anything to protect his precious company. But would that mean killing Claire? Jill clenched the phone in shaking hands. It didn't really matter, did it? Claire was going to die anyway if something wasn't done.

Jill reached for the phonebook and shakily dialed Umbrella's main number. Holding the phone to her ear, hearing the line ring loudly in the stillness, Jill almost lost her nerve. But she clung on, keeping an eye on the stairs. Chris would never let her go through with this.

"_You've reached the Umbrella Corporation. Our Business is Life Itself. To reach the main desk, press 1. For a consultation…"_

Jill pressed 1 without waiting for the rest. The phone rang again, and then someone picked up the line. "Umbrella Corporation. This is Sheila. How may I help you?" The woman's voice was warm and smoky, rich with a Southern accent.

"Hello, I… I was wondering if you could…" Jill stuttered, unable to say it.

"Ma'am? Is there something wrong? Do you need help?" Sheila sounded genuinely concerned.

_Yes! Yes, we need help!_ Jill thought, fighting the urge to hang up the phone. She forced herself to think of Claire. "…I need to get into contact with ch… chairman Albert Wesker," she blurted, before she lost her nerve. "It's an emergency."

Sheila seemed taken aback. "Is he expecting your call?"

"No, but-"

"Then I'm afraid I'm going to have to take a message, ma'am," said Sheila. She said it with the long-suffering tone of someone who put up with kind of thing a lot. "I'm afraid chairman Wesker only takes calls he's expecting or from people he knows personally."

"He does know me!" Jill cried, clinging to the phone. "I'm begging you… just tell him it's Jill Valentine and I really need to talk to him. Please!" She had to hope that the mention of her name would be enough to get Wesker's attention.

"Alright, ma'am. Calm down," said Sheila. "I'm going to put you on hold and see what I can do."

Jill felt a sense of impending doom. She had the horrible feeling that the receptionist was just going to leave her to rot until she lost interest and hung up. All around her the kitchen was filling with cold gray light. Outside, the birds were beginning to wake up and sing, but Jill felt completely and utterly alone. She clung to the phone, listening to the surreal elevator music. A long moment passed, then another. Jill was on the brink of loosing hope just as the line clicked and a new voice filled her ear, one that she was intimately familiar with.

"Hello, Miss Valentine."

Chills raced up and down Jill's spine. Reeling, she almost dropped the phone. She hadn't heard Wesker's voice for over a year, but she knew it was him. Anger and a species of deep sorrow churned inside her chest as visions of the S.T.A.R.S. office swam before her eyes. For a moment, she couldn't believe she was actually talking to Wesker.

"Miss Valentine? I do hope you're not wasting my time. I did, after all, drop what I doing to answer you," said Wesker coolly.

"Cap— Wesker, please listen," said Jill quickly. Had she really almost called him Captain? "Claire… you know Claire, right? Chris' sister? She's really sick."

Wesker sighed faintly. "Well, then I recommend plenty of fluids and bed rest," he said dryly. Jill had the horrible image of him reaching to hang up. "Wesker, wait! Do you really think I'd call you for something as stupid as the flu?" cried Jill. "She's infected with something, one of your viruses! Damn it, don't you understand? She's dying!"

There was a dangerous sort of silence on the other side of the phone. "I see," said Wesker, his voice low. "Symptoms?"

"High fever, vomiting, delirium, and there's these ugly grey blemishes growing on her skin." Jill rattled the list off as easily as if she was at the S.T.A.R.S. office filing an incident report.

Wesker cursed softly under his breath. "Is anyone else affected?"

"No, I don't think so."

"And do you have any idea how she was exposed to the virus?"

"No," said Jill. "She came home feeling sick the other day and we didn't think anything of it."

Wesker was silent for a minute, clearly deep in thought. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention," he said. "Sit tight and do the best you can. I will be there shortly."

Jill opened her mouth, but the line suddenly went dead. Wesker had hung up. Numb with shock, Jill placed the phone back on the cradle. Wesker was coming to get Claire and Jill felt an abrupt thrill of panic. What was to stop him from killing her and Chris in the meantime? Why hadn't she thought of that before? Groaning, Jill buried her face in her hands, hoping beyond hope that she'd done the right thing. And then it suddenly occurred to her that Wesker hadn't asked for their address, almost as if he'd already known. But that was impossible… wasn't it?

**xX-xx-XxxX-xx-Xx**

**AN: And thus it begins. Muhahaha! What is Claire infected with? And what are Wesker's nefarious plans for her? Check back soon for Chapter 2! Oh, and I made a cover pic/promo to celebrate the first chapter of this story. Go check it out on my DeviantArt homepage! (Check my Profile for link.) Once you get there, it'll be the first (very top) one on the left titled _Under his Umbrella_. :)**


	2. Chapter 2: Servatis a Periculum

Chapter 2: Servatis a Periculum

**A/N: Before we go any further, it's necessary to clarify that this story follows the events of Rockfort Island as they were set forth in the _Darkside Chronicles_, not _Code: Veronica X_. Therefore, Wesker did not beat Claire up and subsequently proclaim how much he despises Chris for "ruining his plans", so their hatred for him stems from what he did up at Arklay and also for being involved with Umbrella's nefarious viral research, so he's still an evil bastard regardless of what timeline we're following. Sorry if this messes anybody up, but the _Darkside_ version of events was more conducive to the kind of AU story I'm trying to write, so if you see any discrepancies or events bleeding between games, please squint at them. **

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Resident Evil or any of the characters contained therein. If I did, they'd be making a major CGI movie based on what I'm writing. ;) Oh, and this story takes place about two to three years after Rockfort Island. Okay, I think I've covered everything now, so on with Chapter 2!**

* * *

><p>By noon, Claire had fallen unconscious and couldn't be roused, though they could see her eyes wildly darting back and forth beneath her lids. Sitting on the edge of her bed, Chris gently sponged her face, trying to ease the fever. His face was grey and haggard, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He never stopped talking to Claire and Jill was truly afraid what would happen to him if he lost his sister. The day was already growing hot and they'd brought a fan into Claire's room in an attempt to make it more bearable. Jill poured Chris a glass of water, but he didn't drink it. The room popped with the snick of a lighter as he lit his umpteenth cigarette for the morning.<p>

"Chris, you need to stop," said Jill quietly.

"No," Chris snapped. "No, I'm not going to stop. My sister is dying, Jill, and I'll deal with it however I damn well please!"

Jill had scarcely ever him heard use that tone of voice. It was hard, angry, and so unlike Chris it was almost frightening. She opened her mouth, then closed it again without saying anything. Unable to look at Claire, she stared down at the floor. She was hungry and needed to go to the bathroom, but was too worried for the Redfield siblings to leave the room. After a while, she could hear the sound of engine in the distance, but didn't really stop to consider what it was until she heard a vehicle – several vehicles by the sound of it – whip into the driveway outside.

Jill was on her feet in an instant. She half-ran, half-stumbled downstairs just someone banged on the door. Hard. An abrupt sensation of fear shot through Jill's gut as she thought about who was undoubtedly on the other side, and she didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified. She decided it no longer mattered. Going across the living room, she took a deep breath, unlocked the chain, and threw the door open. Wesker was standing on the porch with a small army of men in silver Hazmat suits gathered behind him.

Wesker's expression was unreadable. "Where is she?"

Jill wasn't surprised to see him, but that didn't make his presence any easier to handle. Tired and upset, she seriously had to work at staying upright and not doing something stupid, like punching him in the face. She'd asked for his help, after all. "Upstairs," Jill croaked, unable to shake the feeling that she was betraying Claire.

Wesker nodded and Jill numbly had to step aside in order to let him in the house. He found the stairs with no preamble whatsoever, his men dispersing through the house with trained precision, and Jill had to hurry to catch up. By the time they reached the second floor, Chris was already partway out of Claire's room, a damp rag clutched in one hand. "Jill? What the hell's going on? Who are—"

He never finished the question. Shocked recognized spread across his face as his eyes alighted on Wesker. "YOU!" he roared, diving for the dresser situated directly across the hallway. He ripped the drawer open and Jill saw him grab the .45 Magnum hidden within. She cried out, but Wesker was already in motion. Nearly faster than the eye could follow, he'd disarmed Chris and slammed him facedown on the floor, pinning him with one knee against his lower back. Chris yelled aloud. Wesker clearly wasn't being gentle.

"Krauser," said Wesker coolly, "if you would."

One of Wesker's mercenaries stepped forward. He was a huge, muscular man with blond hair and a ragged scar bisecting one side of his face. As soon as Wesker had gotten off of Chris, Krauser dragged him to his feet and placed him in a chokehold. Chris struggled with all his might, giving his captor a good workout, but he couldn't break his grip. "Wesker!" he shouted, face twisted with anger and hatred. "Wesker, you bastard! You did this, didn't you? You infected my sister!"

"A charming idea, Chris, but no. I was only made aware of the situation a few hours ago," said Wesker as he calmly walked into Claire's room. Jill wrung her hands as he approached Claire's bed and bent over her, prying his leather glove off with his teeth. He checked her pulse and then gently brushed the damp hair from her face, frowning deeply. Claire jerked and mumbled something incoherent. "Shh, dear-heart. It'll be over soon," Wesker murmured, reaching into his coat for a syringe. The sight of it made Chris go wild.

"Don't you touch her, you bastard!"

Ignoring him, Wesker uncapped the syringe and injected something into Claire's arm. Chris roared like a wounded bull and Krauser looked as though he was seriously considering just knocking him out. Jill's swallowed hard as Wesker swaddled Claire in a blanket and lifted her limp form into his arms. "I want full a decontamination on this room," he ordered, turning. "And make sure the others are given shots of the antivirus."

"Yes, sir." The Hazmat officers swarmed forward and went to work. Holding Claire against him, Wesker was forced to stop halfway down at the hall, as Jill had suddenly stepped in his way. "What… what are you going to do with her?" she whispered, afraid to know the answer, but she tried not to let that show.

"It's not healthy to second-guess yourself, Miss Valentine. You did the right thing in contacting me," said Wesker simply, ignoring the sudden intake of breath from Chris. "And I intend to do everything in my power to insure that she gets the proper treatment. For what it's worth, you have my word."

Jill was so taken aback by his tone she choked on her own air. She wanted to scream at Wesker and remind him beyond any doubt that he was a traitor and a murderer, but the angry words stuck in her throat like glue. Wesker had offered her his word and she had no choice but to take it. It was far too late to change her mind about this. Mouth opening and closing soundlessly, Jill jerkily stepped aside to let him pass.

"You _called_ him here?" Chris' voice was disbelieving howl. He redoubled his efforts to escape from Krauser. "Jill, how could you? Do you have any idea what you've done? DO YOU?"

Jill stared at the carpet, hating herself, as Wesker swiftly brushed past her and headed down the stairs. Unable to look at Chris, Jill numbly followed him and watched through the window as he carefully placed Claire in the front seat of a black luxury sedan with heavily tinted windows. A moment later, Wesker swung the door shut and circled around to the driver's side. Jill felt her throat get tight. She tried to brush off the horrible feeling that it was the last time she'd ever see Claire again. _Dear God, please let me have made the right choice!_

Wesker turned the key in the ignition. The sedan powered up with a lusty, finely tuned purr and he backed out of the driveway without preamble, smoothly turning the car onto the road.

"CLAIRE!" Chris had somehow broken free of Krauser and raced out onto the porch just in time to see the black Aston Martin pull away. Standing there with his arms down at his sides, unable to do anything but watch, his expression was so utterly heartbroken that Jill had to look away, her eyes filling with tears. Krauser stomped down the stairs with the stiff, goose-waddle gait of somebody who'd just taken a solid blow to the privates. "Hey, you," he growled, causing Jill's head to jerk up. "Valentine, right? You and meatloaf over there need to take a shot of the antidote and then head into the decontamination shower. And by that I mean right now. Me and the boys have got work to do."

Chris spun around and furiously started towards Krauser, his face livid. Krauser snapped the automatic he was carrying to his shoulder. "Did I mention I'm authorized to use force if necessary?" he asked icily. "Give me any more trouble and I'll blast _your_ nuts clean off. Got it?"

Chris' glared at Krauser so viciously Jill was afraid he was going to take the mercenary on with his bare hands. "You're going to pay for taking my sister," he growled.

"Take it up with the boss, kid," said Krauser, turning his head to holler back up the stairs. A minute later, a woman came hurrying down, a small silver briefcase clutched in one hand. Except for the surgical mask, she was the only one except Krauser to have forgone full Hazmat gear and Jill vaguely recalled her being on the porch just behind Wesker.

"Alright, let's get this done," she said, setting the case on the table. Jill had a feeling that protesting wouldn't do much good, so she went over without a word and stood quietly while the woman rolled up her sleeve and swabbed the inside of her forearm with iodine. She then took one of Umbrella's trademark spiral syringes, pressed it to Jill's arm, and gave it a firm push. Jill winced as the tines pierced her skin, leaving behind a bloody five-pointed star. The woman handed her a cotton ball.

"You next," said Krauser, gesturing at Chris with the barrel of his gun.

Chris glowered and for a moment it looked like he was going to refuse, but then he slowly went over, refusing to look Jill in the eye. The woman gave him the injection, then briskly packed up her case. "I'll have someone fetch you some clean clothes while you are in the decontamination shower," she said. "They should have it set up by now."

Krauser moved to the door. "This way," he ordered.

Then next ten minutes went by in a blur as Jill was hustled into a large plastic tent that had been erected just outside, where she was forced to stand naked under a bruising jet of cold, bitter-smelling chemicals. Then she was ushered out the other side and Chris was sent in next, Krauser having suitably encouraged him with a few well-chosen threats. Jill hurriedly donned some dry clothes and tried to dry her hair with a disposable towel. If they knew what Claire had been infected with, nobody was talking to her about it. Still, Jill thought she could understand why Umbrella would err on the side of caution after Raccoon City. Another outbreak would be detrimental to the company.

Feeling ill, Jill tossed her towel into a bright yellow garbage bag just as Chris was finishing up. Krauser walked over to her and pulled plastic card out of his pocket. He handed it her and Jill realized it was a prepaid VISA. "I have orders to make sure you're off the premises," Krauser explained. "Find yourself a hotel and stay there until we're finished decontaminating this place. Call this number if you run into any problems."

"You can't make me go anywhere," Chris snarled, rubbing his arm.

"Care to lay some money on that?" Krauser asked dryly. "Way I see it, you can go with your girlfriend willingly or I can knock you out cold and stuff your ass in the trunk of her car. Either way, you're outta here."

Chris let out an inarticulate snarl and started forward. Jill hastily stepped between them. "Knock it off, Chris! You're just making a bad situation worse," she said sharply.

Chris flashed her a glare so cold it could have frozen boiling water. "I don't think I could make things any worse than you already have," he snapped, turning and marching away. Jill felt like she'd been kicked in the gut. Although she probably deserved nothing less, Chris' reaction still hurt. Badly. And Jill found herself desperately trying to think of a way to explain her actions. She tried to go back into the house, but Krauser stopped her with an outstretched hand.

"Car keys," Jill mumbled.

Krauser hollered for somebody to retrieve them. A minute later, Jill found herself getting into Chris' sedan and pulling out of the driveway. It was mid-afternoon and the pavement shone with the beginnings of a heat mirage. Men in silver Hazmat suits were coming in and out of the house, carrying heaps of bedding and Claire's wastebasket. Then Jill turned the corner and the house was lost to view. In a minute they were driving down the road, trees flashing by to either side. Chris had made certain that they lived off the beaten path for numerous reasons. It was likely that nobody from the neighboring suburb would ever know that anything out of the ordinary had happened.

For some reason, Jill hated knowing that. Umbrella could make anything and anyone disappear without a trace, no matter how large the operation. She downshifted and turned onto the highway, nervously trying to look at Chris, but he was glaring out the passenger side window, his body rigid and hunched. She couldn't see his face, but she could read his scowl by the set of his jaw. "Chris…?" Jill's voice barely rose above a whisper. For the first time in her life, she was actually frightened to speak to him. "Chris, please… talk to me."

Chris didn't answer, but his hands clenched into fists. Jill swallowed the hard lump in her throat and quietly pulled onto the shoulder of the road. Loose gravel crunched beneath the tires as they came to a halt. Jill looked at Chris for a long minute, gathering the courage to actually speak. "What else did you want me to do, Chris?" she asked, nearly pleading.

"What did I want you to _do_? ANYTHING BUT GIVE MY SISTER TO THAT MONSTER!" Chris exploded, whirling to face her. Jill was dismayed to see tears working their way down his cheeks. "What the hell were you thinking? Did you forget what happened at the Mansion?"

"She was dying, Chris! Who else was I supposed to ask for help?"

"_Help?_ From Wesker? That's really damn funny, Jill. Do you have any idea what he's going to do to Claire? He's going to stick her in a test tube somewhere, experiment on her, or did you honestly think you could trust him? Are you crazy! What makes you think he didn't infect her to begin with?" Chris was out of breath, panting after his extended outburst. A vein was pulsing in his temple.

"Then he would have come for her anyway!" Jill retorted, suddenly furious with the desire to say something in her defense. "Did you even stop to think about your sister, what was best for her? No, shut up and let me finish! If there's anybody on earth who knows how to save Claire, it's Wesker!"

"And what the hell makes you think he will?"

"He came didn't he?"

"Yeah, so he could lock her up in a lab and stick needles in her!" roared Chris.

"At least she'll be alive!" Jill screamed, pounding the steering wheel with her fists. "If she dies in Wesker's lab, then that's the way it is! She was going to die anyway! God dammit, Chris, think! You know Wesker will keep her alive, as a science project if nothing else. And if she's alive somewhere, then we can try to save her later! Don't you get it? I gave her a chance at the very least, which is more than I can say for you!"

Jill flung her barbed words without thinking, but when Chris flinched and drew back a cold feeling of guilt flooded Jill's stomach. She hastily reached out and grabbed his hands, held them tight. "Chris, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I didn't mean that! Please," Jill leaned across the gearshift, "I didn't know what else to do for Claire. I know what Wesker's like. I didn't want to give her to him either, but I… I…" Her voice cracked. She couldn't finish. Unable to hold them in any longer, hot tears spilled down her cheeks.

"Aw, Jill…" Chris clumsily reached up and threw an arm around her shoulders, pulling her down against his chest. His big hand tangled in her short brown hair. "Come on, don't cry," he rasped, and Jill had never heard him sound so sorry. "You were just trying to do what was best. I didn't mean to yell, and I'm sorry. I… I just…"

"You just wish it hadn't happened at all," Jill croaked.

No other words were necessary. Chris pulled Jill tightly against him, realizing that he'd almost pushed away the one person who truly understood what he was going through. She was crying a little and Chris knew that he was partly to blame. He should he screaming at Wesker, not Jill. Wesker and Umbrella were to blame and no one else. Chris buried his face in Jill's hair. "I'm sorry," he whispered again.

Jill nodded into his chest. "I know."

They stayed that way for a long moment. A car zoomed by the in opposite direction and with the utmost reluctance, Jill pulled back and wiped her hands across her swollen eyes. Chris swallowed and sniffed, drying his nose on his sleeve. "We should… we should find someplace to go," he mumbled.

Without speaking, Jill put the car in gear and pulled back onto the road, never letting go of Chris' hand.

* * *

><p>Claire drifted in and out for days, aware off little else except the pain and the fever. And when the dreams came, they came hard. Troubled, delirious flashes of Raccoon City filled her head, many of them so lucid she could actually hear the fires, the moaning of the undead. The fear and desperation lingered, pulling her down into a black pit. She tried to fight, and there were times when came close to regaining consciousness. In those brief lapses Claire thought she could hear a man's voice. It was deep and velvety, but cold. A doctor's voice. Something about it was vaguely familiar, but Claire had no idea how or why. Sometimes, she was aware of a presence hovering nearby. Warm fingers would brush across her arm, following by a tiny sting of pain and the sensation of fluid sliding beneath her skin. She'd wanted to wake up so very badly, but she couldn't find the strength. Just trying to think was like wading through syrup.<p>

Darkness swallowed her again.

She had no idea how long she'd hovered on the brink like that, nor did she particularly care. For what seemed liked the dozenth time, she heard the man's voice somewhere nearby, but the words were dim and unclear, like they were coming up from the bottom of a well. This time, however, some deep instinct was urgently broadcasting the need to wake up. Claire latched onto the voice and concentrated, swimming upwards through the dark waters of unconsciousness. Slowly, she became aware of the cool, bitter tang of antiseptic filling her nose. Her lungs seized, forcing a surge of air into her body and further bringing her to consciousness. The darkness behind her eyelids was growing brighter. Vague, shadowy shapes started to appear all around her. And Claire slowly dragged her gummy eyes open.

It was a mistake.

The light – harsh, sterile white light – stung her retinas and she snapped them shut again, little explosions of color dancing in her vision. It was a few minutes before she'd summoned the courage to open them again, more carefully this time. The first thing Claire became aware of was the flat, tiled ceiling and the array of fluorescent lights. Blinking sluggishly, Claire tipped her head to the side – a struggle she only barely managed – and the glare became slightly more bearable. Her sense of touch was the next to return. She was on her back, arms down at her sides. Her fingertips felt some kind of padding, but it wasn't enough to cushion the hard, unforgiving surface she was lying on. Struggling for comprehension, Claire realized she was nearly naked, clad only in her panties and a thin hospital gown that barely skimmed her thighs. Growing more confused and frightened, she rolled her head the other way.

A man was standing with his back to her. He was wearing a long white lab coat, Claire realized after a moment, trying to pick him out against the sterile background he was placed against. He was tall, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, and he wore his thick golden hair slicked back. Claire swallowed, trying to water her mouth and call out to him, desperate to know where she was. Just then, however, he turned to another workstation. The profile of his face was sharp and utterly masculine, but somehow very cold, like a statue carved out of marble. And he wore sunglasses. It took Claire's numb mind a long moment to understand, but when she did the shock of it hit her like a slap to the face. Dread filled her empty belly.

Wesker! Claire had seen the man only a sparse handful of times, but his likeness – his reputation – was burned into her brain. She had a vivid memory of seeing him calmly looking up at the _Harrier_ as she and Chris had fled the Arctic facility, jet-black sunglasses glinting menacingly in the firelight. Despite the flames, however, his gaze had been cold and there had been something… _dangerous_ about Wesker's posture that sent shivers dancing their way down Claire's arms. The image of him standing in the flames had haunted the edges of her dreams for days. Seeing him now sent an icy surge of fear through Claire's body and she hastily shut her eyes, her pulse hammering. How had she gotten here with Wesker? Frantically thinking back, she remembered the shooting pains in her stomach, the brief periods when she'd been lucid enough to see the horrid green rot creeping across her body. In the empty clarity of hindsight, she now knew it had to be a viral infection, something from Umbrella. There was no other explanation. Claire swallowed a painful lump in her throat and peeked at her arm, finding it wrapped in soft white gauze. Cold realization seeped into her brain.

_Wesker found out,_ she thought numbly. _He found out about the infection and he kidnapped me to be his new science project!_

Claire suddenly felt sick and lightheaded. What had Wesker done with her brother? Killed him? Locked him away in another lab? She knew perfectly well what Umbrella did in their secret facilities, what kind of horrors they created. Claire bit down a frightened sob, trying not to think about what Wesker undoubtedly had planned for her. Lying half-naked on a gurney, she felt horribly exposed and vulnerable. She clenched her hands into fists, trying to stay calm. She had to get away somehow. She wouldn't let Wesker turn her into one of his monsters. Opening her eyes just a fraction, Claire watched the man bend over a nearby computer, still partially turned away from her. He didn't seem to have realized Claire was awake, for which she was insanely grateful. Frantically looking around, she spied a metal cart beside her gurney. A beige can of antiseptic spray was closest at hand.

Moving with excruciating slowness, Claire inched her hand towards the canister, never taking her eyes off of Wesker. He made a few notes on his clipboard and then went back to typing. Claire's fingers closed around cold, smooth metal and she forced the muscles in her hand to close, grasping the canister. Her arm shook dangerously. Gritting her teeth, Claire hastily concealed the canister against her thigh, one finger still on the spray nodule. Then she waited, shivering with nerves. After what seemed like an eternity, Wesker turned towards her. Peering at him through her lashes, Claire distantly realized he was dressed in a black pants, with a dark red shirt and black tie. Her grip tightened on the canister.

Wesker approached the side of the gurney, picking a capped syringe off the table. The reservoir was filled with clear liquid and Claire fought the instinct to move. Uncapping the syringe, Wesker tapped it with a finger. Then – and Claire couldn't believe her luck – he removed his sunglasses and leaned forward to pick up her arm. There was a brief moment, however, when Claire froze, petrified by the sight of his demonic eyes. They were… dear Gods, what _were_ they exactly? The lab was too bright to really tell, but Claire could have sworn they were actually glowing with a faint red aura. Unable to summon the initiative to move, she probably would have stayed that way if she hadn't felt the prick of a needle in her forearm. Gasping, Claire recoiled and thrust the antiseptic canister in Wesker's face, spraying a jet of it straight into his eyes.

Wesker's reaction was instantaneous. Yelling in agony, he recoiled, both hands clamped over his eyes. Claire was shocked to see the pain actually drop him to one knee.

_Quit staring, stupid, and move!_

Lurching to the side, Claire swung her feet around and placed them on the cold floor. A rushing noise filled her ears as she heaved herself off the gurney and the room spun around her. She stumbled and would have fallen, cracking her skull on the hard floor, but at the last moment she grabbed hold of the crash cart and hung on. Wesker was making a frightening, animalistic snarling noise deep in his throat and was trying to stand, furiously wiping at his streaming eyes. With a small cry of terror, Claire forced her shaking legs to move. Bare feet slapping the floor, she broke into a stumbling run and made a break for the door, out into a gleaming white hallway. Pain knifed up and down her legs as she ran and within minutes she was gasping uncontrollably. A stitch in her side threatened to drop her at any moment. It wasn't as if she was unhealthy or out of shape, but her muscles felt like overcooked noodles. Panting, Claire threw her shoulder against a side door and fell out into another corridor. Desperate for any advantage, she threw the door behind her and bolted it, hoping it would slow Wesker down. She didn't know if he was following her, but she had to assume he was.

Claire sprinted down the hallway and turned the corner. At the end of the hall was an elevator. Sobbing for breath, Claire tried to activate it, but it wouldn't work for her. Wesker had shut them down. Claire sagged against the wall, desperately searching for another way. To her right she spotted a door marked _Emergency Exit_. She stumbled towards them and threw the door open, revealing a concrete shaft and endless metal stairs. Claire's watery legs shook, nearly giving way. There was no way she could make that climb. She was as good as trapped. Raw panic began to set in as she lurched towards another nearby door. It was a small maintenance closet filled with cleaning supplies.

Leaving the stairwell door open, Claire fell into the closet and shut herself in, praying that Wesker would fall for the ruse and assume she'd taken the stairs. The closet smelled like bleach and Pine-Sol, and Claire's left foot quickly became entangled in a mop that was still disgustingly wet. Slumping against the rack of cleaning supplies, Claire struggled to get her breath, peering out through the tiny, slatted window that afforded ventilation to the small closet. A moment later, she heard footsteps. Wesker came around the corner like a panther, his stride heavy and menacing, and Claire shrank back. Not bothering to check the elevator, Wesker went straight for the stairwell. He stood there for a moment, peering up the never-ending shaft. Claire held her breath.

_Go. Oh, please just go!_

But Wesker turned, his eyes falling on the closet. He'd put his sunglasses back on, but his expression was less that pretty. A wave of sickness crashed over Claire as Wesker approached the closet and angrily threw the door open. "Nice try," he growled, reaching in to grab her arm. Claire cried out as she was roughly dragged forward, tripping over the mop. It and several bottles of cleaner bounced onto the floor. Terror gave Claire strength and she desperately swung a fist for Wesker's head. He caught it easily and spun her around, slamming her back against his chest. Claire choked as Wesker's gloved hand coiled around her throat, effectively keeping her pinned against his shoulder even as his other arm snaked around her waist.

"Are you done, Miss Redfield?" Wesker growled in her ear.

Claire struggled, trying everything and anything to break Wesker's hold on her, but it like was trying to escape braided iron and her exertions only left her winded. Eventually she sagged in his arms, her lungs heaving and taking in huge, painful gulps of air. Wesker's grip on her throat loosened slightly so she could breathe. "Better," he said, his voice almost a purr. Claire felt the side of his face against hers, his skin wet with hot, irritated tears. "What do you think you're doing running from me like that?"

"You sick, sadistic bastard," Claire weakly twisted against him. "Let me go!"

"No, I don't think I will," said Wesker coolly. "I've spent far too much time purging the T-Veronica Virus from your system, and the procedure is still far from complete. Now, you have two choices. You can be an obedient girl and come with me willingly or you can go back to being unconscious. Which one is it going to be?"

Struggling for comprehension, Claire feebly tried to kick Wesker's shins. The T-Veronica Virus? Is that what she'd been sick with? She desperately tried to think back to the gut-wrenching pains and all the times it'd driven her to vomit. Wesker was telling the truth about that and Claire had a sudden epiphany. He'd been the one to infect her!

"I'm never going back with you!" she gasped defiantly. "You'd might as well kill me now, because I'm not becoming one of your test subjects! Did you infect Chris, too? Is he down in another lab?"

Wesker chuckled. "You're a bit confused, I think. I'm not going to harm you unless you force my hand."

"You'll kill me either way!"

"And why would I waste my time treating your infection if I planned to kill you?"

Claire swallowed, her brain working fast. She couldn't trust anything Wesker had to say. Whatever he had planned for her, she wouldn't be part of it. Suddenly feeling very sick, she squirmed against him with what little strength she had left. Hot, prickly sweat had broken out on her forehead and her stomach was starting to hurt badly. She would have liked to believe it was Wesker's ruthless hold on her waist, but she knew better. The discomfort was horribly familiar by now. A sudden wave of pain passed over her and she whimpered, convulsing slightly. Wesker heaved an irritable sigh.

"Well done, Miss Redfield. You've managed to aggravate the virus by running around like a fool. I hope you're satisfied."

Reaching into the pocket of his lab coat, Wesker pulled out a syringe and uncapped it with his teeth. Gasping, Claire tried to pull away, but Wesker held her firm. "Now let's get one thing clear," he poised the needle in front of her face. "This serum is the only thing keeping you from relapsing into your former condition. There is no escape from me, not if you want to live."

Claire bit down another whimper crawling it's way up her throat. The pain had come hard and sudden, and was threatening to make her pass out. Wesker's grip on her throat keep her standing and against his shoulder, but her vision was beginning to fuzz. She struggled to force her rubbery legs beneath her.

Wesker's mouth was at her ear. "Say it, Miss Redfield. Say you want me save your life, so there's no argument later."

Claire gasped something unintelligible. His voice sickened her even more than the pain, but when she felt him push the syringe into her arm she could only sob quietly, not even having the strength to protest. "There. That wasn't so hard, was it?" Wesker's hand moved from her throat to her forehead, keeping her head tipped back. "I told you, I have no intentions of hurting you if you cooperate."

Darkness ebbed and flowed around the edges of Claire's senses. The pain was fading, but so was everything else. The last thing she remembered was Wesker gathering her crumpling body into his arms.


	3. Chapter 3: A Gilded Prison

Chapter 3: A Gilded Prison

"_**Oh, don't you see the bridge is burning? Stop screaming and don't resist, because otherwise it will break apart."**_

Not for the first time, Claire found herself slowly coming awake. Her body felt heavy, soporific, and it took her several minutes before she could open her eyes. Despite the hollow feeling in her stomach, the first thing Claire realized was that she was comfortably curled beneath heavy blankets. She shifted, feeling the warm sheets against her bare skin. _Mmm. Satin._

Confused, Claire turned her head on the pillow. Her bed didn't have satin sheets and it most certainly wasn't this big. Something wasn't right, but Claire was still too dazed to figure out what. Blinking, she glanced around the room. It was massive, more like a grand hotel suite than a bedroom. The furniture was modern and typical enough, and the floor was paneled in rich honey-colored wood, but the walls were made entirely of weathered stone, like something Claire would expect to find in a castle, and there was a large open fireplace set in the opposite wall. This clash between medieval and contemporary gave the room a strange, mysterious sort of feeling that Claire wasn't entirely sure she liked. _Where the hell am I?_

Suddenly, like water gushing from a broken dam, everything that had transpired came flooding back. Claire sat upright with a soft cry, clutching her arm where Wesker had injected her. Her eyes darted around the room, searching for a way out.

"I would strongly advise against getting out of bed."

Spinning around so fast it made her head pound, Claire faced the direction of Wesker's voice. He was seated behind a large mahogany desk at the far end of the room, smirking and watching her from behind those infernal glasses. Claire tugged the blankets more tightly around herself in an instinctive gesture of protection, trying to force her heart out of her throat and back into her chest where it belonged. A heavy silence seemed to fill the room and Claire suddenly became aware that she'd been asleep in the man's bed. _Oh, God I think I'm going to be sick…_

"Where am I?" she demanded, her voice rough.

Wesker laced his hands together on the desk. There was a large, expensive-looking computer in front of him, as well as a cordless phone and various other paraphernalia. "Relax, dear-heart," he chuckled. The way he said the strange nickname made Claire's skin crawl. "You're safe and that's all you need to know right now."

"Safe?" Claire blurted. "You infect me with a virus, you kidnap me, and then you want me to feel _safe_?"

Wesker frowned at her. "I see that I'm going to have to clarify a few things," he said. "To the best of my knowledge, I did not infect you with anything, since I have no idea how or even when you were exposed. I was hoping you could enlighten me in that regard."

"Sorry to disappoint you," Claire spat. All she remembered was suddenly feeling sick at work. As far as she knew, it'd been a normal week up until then. The most remarkable thing to happen was that she'd plowed into Todd coming out of the restroom, so no zombies, no Tyrants, and no contact with Umbrella whatsoever. She told Wesker as much, adding hatefully, "Did you have fun poisoning the city's water supply?"

Wesker's frown became a glower. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that last comment," he warned. "You should be thanking me on bended knee for saving your life. Instead, I have to listen to you self-righteous accusations."

"Give me a gun and I'll show you what you really deserve," said Claire. She felt sore and empty on the inside, as though she hadn't eaten anything for days, and she was starting to quiver slightly under the blankets. She kept a brave face, though, determined not to show weakness in front of Wesker. She furtively glanced around for a weapon.

"I'm afraid there's no can of antiseptic for you this time," Wesker sneered, though he sounded almost amused.

Claire scowled at him, hatred boiling inside her. "Whatever you want from me, you're not getting it," she said, "so you'd better kill me now or let me go, because I'm not becoming another one of Umbrella's science experiments!"

"So slow to catch on," Wesker taunted. "If I'd wanted to kill you, you'd be dead already. Same with the "experiments" you keep referring to every time you're lucid. I'd start showing more gratitude if I were you. I could have thrown you in a cell somewhere with only the rats for company instead of allowing you to share my accommodations." He gestured at the lavish room around them. "Or is that what you'd prefer?"

"I'd prefer to leave," said Claire coldly.

"Very well. If you truly find my company so despicable, I'll have you sent back to your dear brother."

Claire blinked, gaping at Wesker. "Just like that?" she demanded suspiciously.

"Just like that, dear-heart. Of course, you'll die within a few days without the serum I've manufactured to keep your infection in check, but that's beside the point, isn't it?" The ghost of a smirk was coiled around Wesker's lips and Claire could detect the faintest gleam of red behind his glasses. His words sent a massive shudder crawling down her spine and she unconsciously moved to clutch at her arm. The gauze was still in place, but what was underneath it?

"So I'm still infected? What's the point, then?" she demanded. "So you can keep me around and see what I turn into?"

Wesker stood up and Claire immediately fought the urge to cower. Coming around the desk, he soon towered over her, dark shades glinting menacingly in the light. "I don't enjoy repeating myself, so this is going to be the last time I indulge your foolishness," he said. "If you want to remain in good health, you're going to start acting a little more grateful. I am responsible for you, and as such I have no intentions of harming you. Yet. Do not underestimate the power I have over you, dear-heart."

Claire sucked in a terrified breath as Wesker planted his hands on either side of her body and leaned in until she could smell the mouthwash on his breath. He was too strong, too dangerous, and far too close. "You are not here for my personal pleasure, but if you disobey me, if you cause me any kind of trouble by trying to escape, there will be severe consequences," said Wesker, his voice deep and rich, and utterly cold. "Is that clear?"

Claire swallowed, trying to project a calm she didn't feel. "Go to hell," she hissed.

Wesker moved so fast, she didn't even realize he'd grabbed her until it was too late. Claire gasped as his hand wrapped around her throat and levered her back, flattening her against the bed even as he straddled her hips with his legs. Claire had no way to fight him and she was too frightened to struggle. "Obviously not clear enough," he growled, his expression fierce. His fiery eyes seemed to burn right through his glasses and into her soul. "Do you really want me to show you how badly I can hurt you?"

Claire shivered, her hands scrabbling against Wesker's sleeve. "You can't keep me here," she gasped. "My brother will come for me!"

Wesker let out a short, barking laugh. "Did I mention that Jill was the one to inform me of your condition?"

Claire froze, Wesker's words ringing in her ears. "She… she what? You're lying!" Claire exclaimed, her eye wide. Wesker was trying to frighten her. He had to be! After everything that had happened, everything that this traitorous bastard had put them through, there was no way in hell Jill would turn to Wesker for help.

"I'm afraid not, dear-heart." Wesker's hand uncoiled from her throat and he stepped back, leaving her gasping. "Miss Valentine contacted me when it appeared that your condition had become terminal. You brother was quite angry as I recall, but there was very little he could do given the circumstances. I did not "kidnap" you. I brought you to this facility because I couldn't risk an outbreak."

Claire's mouth opened and closed several times, but nothing came out. She wanted to believe that Wesker was lying to her, but one look into his eyes quickly dispelled the notion. Horror and shock and anger hit Claire all at once, making her ill. She'd been betrayed. Jill had sold her out to a monster. She'd been imprisoned by Umbrella before, but this time her captor was far more dangerous and unpredictable, and there was no telling what he'd do. Wesker gazed down at her for a moment longer before walking away in the other direction. Claire heard him leave the room and close the door behind him.

Gulping, Claire laid there for a minute, massaging her abused throat and trying to shake off the feeling of Wesker's hand. After making certain that he wasn't coming back, she slowly and painfully got to her feet. A wave of dizziness passed over her as she stood, and she had to grip the edge of Wesker's nightstand in order to keep from falling. Unlike the last time, she didn't have the benefit of adrenaline coursing through her system and she'd never felt so weak in her life. Taking one step at a time, she slowly shuffled towards the door. It was made of heavy, solid oak and arched at the top, studded all-over with worn metal rivets. Claire gripped the handle and gave it a tug, but the door wouldn't budge. Despite its antique appearance, the door was quiet strong and it looked as though Wesker had fitted it with an electronic lock.

Claire hadn't really expected the door to be unlocked, but she had to try, didn't she? She let her hand glide off the latch and turned to survey the rest of her prison. A small kitchenette took up most of one corner and there was one another door through which Claire could see what looked to be a bathroom. Behind Wesker's desk were heavy velvet drapes in a dark, somber hue of red. Claire hurried to check, but the simple act of walking left her damp and weak. Grasping the curtains, she desperately threw them open before she lost the strength to do so. Looking out the window, Claire didn't know what she'd expected to see, but it definitely wasn't this.

Outside the window, the sun was just beginning to set and cast a ruddy orange glow. Claire was shocked and dismayed to find herself faced with a sheer drop of at least a hundred feet down a smooth sandstone wall. Looking left and right, all she could gather was that she on the upper floors of a building perched atop a tall, rocky hill. Although, Claire realized a stunned moment later, the _building_ would probably be more accurately described as a castle. The ground fell away below her in tiers, upon which were clustered numerous trees and buildings, most of them looking as though they'd been built in another century. At the bottom of the incline was a high stone rampart with several large towers and beyond that, a featureless expanse of dark blue ocean that seemed to go on forever.

Claire sagged against the windowsill. _Oh, my God…_

She was on an island. Off in the distance, a dark, hazy band could be seen on the horizon, indicating the presence of a large landmass, but there was no way for Claire to tell how far away it was. Despair rose up in her chest, threatening to choke her, and any sort of awe or curiosity concerning her location was swallowed up. Even if she managed to escape Wesker's immediate clutches, where would she go then? The island looked relatively small, but it was still a kilometer of unknown, heavily populated ground to cover on foot. And if she reached the wall and somehow managed to get over it, was she supposed to swim the dozen or so miles to shore?

Shaking, Claire turned away from the window, her legs threatening to give out. Stumbling, she only barely made it back to the bed before she had to collapse. Wesker's sheets smelled like soap and aftershave and cologne, something warm and musky, and reminiscent of sandalwood. Knowing that Wesker slept here made Claire want to hurl in disgust, but she couldn't force herself to go to the couch. Curling in on herself, she broke down and began to sob, balling handfuls of Wesker's pillow in her fists. She couldn't bear the thought of Chris, her big brother, her hero, suffering over her wellbeing. The horrible thing was that it didn't take long before a nasty, vindictive little voice snidely reminded her that Chris obviously didn't care about her. He'd abandoned her to Wesker, after all.

_No, no, NO! That's not true!_

Claire was wracked by guilt for even thinking it such a thing. Jill and her brother had only been trying to help her, and Claire angrily wished that she'd died before they'd been forced to make that choice. Her entire body trembled as she cried into the pillow, soaking it with her tears. Wesker was right. There was no escape. She was now the prisoner of a monster who'd betrayed his entire unit without batting an eyelash. She was completely and utterly alone.

Claire fell asleep crying and stayed that way the entire night, occasionally coming to and then lying awake to sob before drifting off again. By the time morning came, cold grey light filtering in through the open drapes, Claire had no more tears left to cry. Her throat was raw, and her eyes were swollen and sore. She struggled with Wesker's tangled sheets for a minute before heaving herself to her feet. Her stomach gurgled miserably, voicing its need for food, and Claire suddenly became aware that she needed to relieve herself. Moving slowly, she made her way into the bathroom. It was fairly large, with the same honey-brown flooring and grey stone walls. A spacious walk-in shower was in the corner, immaculate and white, brass fixtures gleaming in the light.

Claire peeked inside, but any shampoo or soap – assuming that Wesker still took showers like a normal human being – was hidden somewhere beyond her immediate ability to find. There wasn't much else to explore, so Claire rinsed her face in the sink and dried off with a nearby towel, scowling at its ebon color. "Does everything the man own come in black?" she wondered aloud, her voice sounding strangely desolate. She went back into the main room and stood in the center of it with a hollow pit in her stomach, trying to figure out what to do next. Then she noticed a shopping bag – several bags, actually – near the foot of the bed.

Going over to retrieve them, Claire discovered that they were full of clothes. Wesker must have left them for her to find. There were several pairs of sweatshirts and pants, a velour tracksuit, one or two black t-shirts, and two pairs of shoes. All of it was plain, practical, and one-size-fits all. Claire rubbed her bare arms, reminded of how vulnerable she felt wearing a skimpy hospital gown. If nothing else, she decided to get dressed. Facing Wesker half-naked again was not something she wanted to repeat. As if on cue, Claire had no sooner pulled a jacket over her head when the door unlocked with a bright, distinctive chime.

Claire hastily stood up as Wesker came into the room. "Good morning, dear-heart," he said, smiling at her in a way that made Claire want to shiver. Glancing at the slim silver briefcase Wesker was carrying, a sudden feeling of dread spilled into her stomach. She bravely resisted the urge to back away from him. "What's that for?" she demanded, relieved to hear that her voice was steady.

"Relax," Wesker chuckled, a placid smirk lifting the corners of his mouth. He set the case on the desk. "I've managed to bring your infection down to a controllable level, but you're going to have to take an injection every morning in order to keep it that way, or until I decide otherwise." Opening the case, Wesker removed a long syringe marked with the letters _PG68 C/R._

"I don't want it," Claire told him sharply.

Wesker chuckled, amused by her defiance. "Dear-heart, you seem to think I am giving you a choice."

Claire swallowed hard. Wesker's tone was light enough, but she wasn't foolish enough to miss the menacing edge hiding beneath it. She wondered what would happen if she continued to refuse and thought it likely that Wesker would simply knock her to the floor and administer the injection by force. Lowering her eyes, Claire thrust her arm towards him, too tired and hungry to put up a fight. Wesker smirked and gripped her wrist, pulling her forward a step. The close-fitting leather of his glove felt hot and buttery against her skin, and she resisted the urge to shudder. He slapped the inside of her elbow, making her veins appear, and carefully slipped the needle under her skin. There was a slight jab of pain and Claire watched with a sort of morbid fascination as the eerie red liquid drained into her arm.

"Now that wasn't so bad, was it?"

Gritting her teeth, Claire yanked her arm out of reach and rubbed the inside of her elbow. Wesker put the syringe back in the case, glancing at the open drapes. "I see you've taken a look outside," he observed.

"Yeah, I did," said Claire shortly. "Pretty impressive. Are you going to tell me where I am?"

"You mean you haven't figured it out by now? With all the effort you and your brother put into trying to ruin me, I'd have thought you'd know the locations of all my facilities by heart," Wesker jested cruelly.

Claire glared at him. He was baiting her, trying to elicit a reaction, and she wasn't going to give it to him.

"It's called _Mont St. Michel_," said Wesker, "or Saint Michael's island, if you prefer."

Claire thought long and hard, but the name didn't ring a bell. "And what about all those people down there?" she asked, gesturing at the small town below them. "A couple hundred innocent civilians are expendable if something goes wrong, huh? Just like Raccoon City."

"First of all, Raccoon City was an accident," said Wesker coolly. "And for your information, dear-heart, the surrounding community is populated solely by Umbrella employees and their families. Since the only way on or off the island is by boat or helicopter, the daily commute proved rather inconvenient. Housing everyone locally simplifies things, wouldn't you agree?"

"Huh. And how many of your "employees" know what really goes on around here?"

"Oh, a fair few," Wesker replied casually, as if he were commenting on the weather. "Like myself, most top-level personnel have permanent residences in the main facility, including a few I believe you may be acquainted with."

Claire looked over at him, catching those red-gold eyes directly. His statement baffled her, but she wasn't about to ask him for clarification, not with that smirk hovering on his lips. She glanced back outside and inwardly had to admit that the island was indeed very grand, but any kind of wonder Claire might have felt was destroyed by knowing that it was all just a front to keep Umbrella's adoring public and the health inspectors happy. Little did they know that there was stuff that made Ebola look tame simmering beneath their feet.

"What happens if there's an outbreak?" Claire demanded, folding her arms.

"The possibility of such an event is precisely why I choose this island. Despite a full-blown outbreak at the Ashford training facility, the infection was effectively contained and causalities were actually very limited. If you'll notice, the island is completely surrounded by a rock wall approximately fifteen feet high and four feet thick. A useful relic from the last century, I must say. The undead may be notorious for crashing through storefront windows, but I can safely assure you that they'll find the wall a bit more troublesome to breach."

"They'll find a way eventually," said Claire, unimpressed.

"Perhaps," Wesker agreed. "However, if there is an outbreak, the island goes through three lockdown phases. Phase 1 is when sensors detect a contamination in the lower levels. The air vents are promptly sealed, safety barriers come down over all windows and doors, and internal security is alerted. Airborne chemicals are then pumped into the lower levels to eradicate any contamination."

Claire scowled at him. Such procedures sounded good on paper, but she'd repeatedly seen how useless they were in the real world. "Yeah, that's what they said up at Arklay, too," she said. "And in Raccoon City. _And_ on Rockfort Island."

"Phase 2 is when people have actually been exposed to a virus," Wesker continued. "At this point, the island goes through a mandatory evacuation for all nonessential personnel and the security teams are then authorized to use deadly force. Phase 3 is when the situation is deemed irreparable and the self-destruct sequence is set."

"Oh, so you just nuke a couple hundred people to make sure nobody finds out? How noble."

"You obviously haven't been listening," said Wesker a trifle coolly. "If the island has entered a Phase 3 alert, then anyone who hasn't been infected has already been evacuated. Whoever is left has got approximately ten minutes to reach minimum safe distance. There are enough high explosive charges planted beneath your feet to sink the entire island to the bottom of the ocean."

Claire bit back a smart remark regarding how many people Wesker planned to kill with the resulting tsunami. That is, if there were any people on the nearby shoreline to kill. For all Claire knew, she could be floating off the coast of Greenland or Antarctica, since Wesker had been deliberately vague in regards to which "ocean" he was referring to. She opened her mouth to say something to him when her stomach groaned loudly, seeing as it hadn't gotten her attention the first time. The smug look on Wesker's face was enough to make Claire want to punch the crap out of him.

"Help yourself to anything you like, dear-heart," said Wesker, waving his hand towards the kitchen. "I think you'll find that it's stocked with better things than bread and water."

Claire didn't miss what he was insinuating at, but she couldn't find the energy to care or act tough. She heard Wesker laugh confidently to himself, clearing enjoying her submission, and so Claire had to settle with flashing him a stubborn glare, silently promising him hell as soon as she got something in her stomach. 

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Sorry for the short chapter, folks. There will be more Claire/Wesker antagonism next week, I promise, as our favorite redhead dredges up some painful STARS memories and needles Wesker into a rage, but something happened at Arklay that he's not telling her. Witness as the plot begins to thicken! ;)**

**Anyway, I want you all to Google some images of **_**Mont St. Michel**_**, so everybody can better picture what Claire is seeing. And before you all gang up on me, I know it's a tidal island and barely a kilometer offshore, but I figure since this is obviously an AU universe and since neither Raccoon City, Kijuju, Rockfort Island or any of the other famous **_**Resident Evil**_** locations even exist in the real world, I don't think I'm going too far by pushing **_**Mont St. Michel**_** out to about three to four miles offshore. I really liked the history and layout of the island, so it was perfect for the establishing the sense of power and grandeur that is Umbrella. Claire will begin to like it eventually. She just doesn't know it yet. Besides, there's another reason why I ultimately picked **_**Mont St. Michel**_**, otherwise known as Mount Saint Michael, as the setting for this story. **

**The Archangel Michael is typically invoked for the care of the sick, and his name actually translates as "Who is like God?" A fitting title, wouldn't you say? As always, your kind reviews are enjoyed and very much appreciated. Thank you for being my inspiration! ^_^**


	4. Chapter 4: Seeds of Doubt

Chapter 4: Seeds of Doubt

In the days that followed, Claire soon discovered that any kind of physical exercise, even walking to the bathroom and back, usually left her shaking. And she was constantly tired, having to take two, sometimes even three naps a day just to stay on her feet. She'd been awake and lucid for just over three days, but had to wonder exactly how long she'd been in Wesker's so-called care beforehand. A week? Two weeks? She made a mental note to ask him. Not that the man was ever around to talk to, anyway. Except for her daily injections, she only saw Wesker very late at night, when he returned from whatever lab he prowled during the daylight hours. And even when he was the room, he usually spent hours on his computer, hardly sparing Claire a glance as he clicked away on the keys.

On the morning of the fourth day, when Claire actually had to stop and rest on her way to the kitchen, she told herself enough was enough. She made herself a sandwich and with it clenched in her jaw made her way back to the couch to eat. She'd already tried the phone on Wesker's desk the day before and found that no matter how many times she picked up the fiendish device, the dial tone would abruptly cut out. It was as if the phone had a mind of its own and could tell her apart from Wesker, since she'd seen the man use it at least once. Huffing, Claire had banged the phone back in its cradle with a few choice exclamations and given up.

Claire finished her sandwich and laid flat on the floor, hooking her toes beneath the couch. In trying to do a sit-up, however, Claire found that her stomach muscles refused to properly lift her weight. She dropped back down with a dismayed squawk. Damn viruses, damn being sick, and damn Wesker most of all. Claire sunk her teeth into her bottom lip and tried again. Five minutes later, with the folds of her stomach damp with sweat, she managed one single crunch. Gasping, Claire flopped back down and declared that she was done. She was lying there trying to catch her breath when the door opened and Wesker came into the room. Claire eyed him warily as he came to stand over her, his eyes fixed on her face.

"I trust you're doing alright?" he asked, though he didn't sound very concerned at all.

"Not really," Claire snapped, growing uncomfortably aware of her vulnerable position on the floor. She rolled over and hastily got to her feet, keeping the couch between her and Wesker. "I can't even walk across the room and back without stopping to catch my breath!"

"It's only natural that your muscles would atrophy slightly," said Wesker in his clinical doctor's voice. "Coupled with your recent illness and the strain on your system, I don't think it's anything to worry about. If there aren't any further complications, your strength will return in time."

"Wow, that makes me feel a whole lot better," Claire deadpanned, glaring at him. "And just how long was I out?"

"About a week, which is why I've decided it's time for you to give your dear brother a little progress report," said Wesker with a disconcerting smile. He moved towards his desk and sat down languidly, picking up the phone with one hand. Claire was confused and understandably unsettled, and didn't move from her place by the couch. What was Wesker playing at now? There was no way he'd let her talk to Chris.

Wesker's smirk deepened. "Unless you don't feel up to it, of course," he purred, tipping his head at her. His hand hovered over the cradle, poised to hang up the phone.

Claire jerkily moved forward. 

* * *

><p>Chris slumped on the couch, a dying cigarette hanging from his lips. After an extended two-day stay at a local hotel, he and Jill had finally been allowed back into their home. Umbrella had packed up and left, leaving nothing out of place, but nothing could cover up the smell of chemicals, most of which being probably just about as dangerous as the crap they were supposed to be killing. Chris didn't care either way. Living each tortuous day knowing that Claire was in Wesker's bloodstained hands turned his stomach sour and made it impossible for him to think of anything else. What was he doing to Claire? Was she still sick? Dead? <em>Dying<em>? There was no way for Chris to know, and he'd been debating with himself for days whether or not to get into contact with Leon.

Chris violently shook himself and relit his cigarette, realizing it'd gone out. Just then, the phone rang and startled him out of his stupor. He lunged across the couch to get it, knocking a glass of warm soda over in the process, and hit _TALK_ before the phone had a chance to ring a third time. "Hello?"

"Well, that was fast," laughed a cold voice.

"Wesker!" Chris felt his guts harden and tangle up, forcing a lump into his throat. He gripped the phone like a drowning man. "Where's my sister? I want to talk to her!"

"Of course you do," said Wesker smoothly. Thousands of miles away, he held the phone out to Claire, smirking at her over the top of his glasses. That alone scared the hell out of her, but she forced herself to take the phone, feeling numb all over. "Chris?"

"Claire!" Her brother's shocked, relieved voice filled her ear. "Claire, are you alright? Has he hurt you?"

"N… no, not really," said Claire, swallowing hard. She watched Wesker as he casually leaned back in his chair, reaching across his desk to pick up the telephone cord. Smirking at her, he pointedly wound the line around his finger and Claire didn't need a translator to know what _that_ meant. One slip-up, one wrong word, and her call was over. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves.

"Claire? What do you mean "not really"? Hello?" Chris' voice sounded desperate.

"I'm okay, Chris," said Claire, shakily leaning against Wesker's desk. For some reason, just hearing her brother's voice made her want to burst into tears. He sounded so worried and full of despair, she would have given anything to hug him right now. "Really. I'm okay. I'm not locked in a cell or anything, so… so you don't have to worry about that."

"How… how are you doing then? You were so sick, I thought you were going to... you know, leave me like Mum and Dad," Chris mumbled thickly. "Was it the T-Virus?"

"No, thank God. Wesker says it was T-Veronica," Claire answered, trying to act stronger than she felt.

"Isn't that the stuff that Alexia had? I thought you said you never got bit or anything!"

"I didn't! I don't know how it happened. I would have told you if I did."

Chris was silent for a minute, apparently thinking hard. "I did find you all tied up in that cocoon," he said after a moment, his voice low. "Do you think something might've happened there? Maybe that sadistic bitch shot you full of something!"

Claire had never thought of that. Maybe Alexia had conducted an experiment on her and intended for her to mutate like Steve had done. But if that were true, then why hadn't it worked? Steve had turned into a reptilian monster just a few hours after having been exposed to the virus. Claire glanced at Wesker out of the corner of her eye, aware that he was watching her closely.

"It's what she did to Steve, so she might have," Claire agreed, a painful sort of fury kindling inside her. Steve had been so chivalrous and kind to her, even confessing to loving her just before he'd died. Claire wasn't sure if she felt the same way in return, but she did know that Steve had been a dear friend and the man who'd taken him for experimentation was sitting just two feet away.

"Are you still feeling sick?" Chris wanted to know.

"No. Well, sort of. I'm tired all the time and I can't do much, but Wesker says he's got the virus under control. I have to take an injection every morning, but it's not so bad," said Claire, trying to ease Chris' mind, even if that meant stretching the truth.

"An injection? And just what the hell is that doing to you?" Chris demanded.

"I'm not sure. I think it's like a insulin shot to keep the infection suppressed."

"More like keep _you_ suppressed," Chris growled. "Please, Claire, don't lie to me, okay? Tell me where you are and I'll come get you."

Claire's throat tightened. She tried not to look in Wesker's direction, afraid of giving herself away, but she couldn't help it. Glancing sidelong at the man, she realized that Wesker was dangerously still and Claire felt rather than saw him narrow his eyes, daring her to say something. "I… I'm on…" _Saint Michael's island! Say it while you can!_

Wesker pulled the coiled phone-line taut.

"I don't know, Chris. I really don't," Claire gasped, and it was the truth. Wesker's vague references didn't tell her where in the world _Mont Saint Michel_ actually was. She desperately wanted to give Chris the name and hope that he'd figure it out, but something inside her warned that it would be pointless. Knowing the scope of the island and what Wesker was capable of, the last thing in the world Claire wanted was to watch her brother get killed.

"But you know something, though, don't you?" said Chris accusingly. "Claire, don't worry about me. I'll get backup, Leon and the others. We'll get you out of there, I promise, but you have to give me something to go on!"

"Chris, I… I can't," Claire whispered.

Chris' frustration became almost palatable. "But why? He's still there, isn't he?" he snarled, voice low.

"Yes, Chris, I'm still here," said Wesker with a smirk, raising his voice to make sure Chris heard. He held his hand out for the phone. "Time's up, dear-heart. I'm a very busy man."

Claire felt a thrill of mingled anger and desperation. Swallowing, she gripped the phone, unconsciously turning her body away from Wesker. The tyrant frowned at her warningly. "I gotta go, Chris," Claire managed, struggling to keep her voice even. "I love you, okay?"

"Claire, wait—"

Chris' voice was abruptly cut short as Wesker deftly plucked the phone from Claire's grasp. She jumped, trying to comprehend how he could move so quickly, as Wesker placed the phone to his ear. "Sorry about that, Chris," he mused thoughtfully. "It seems she enjoys my company more than I anticipated."

"You son-of-a-bitch! I'm going to kill you, you hear me?" Chris roared, shaking with rage.

"Brave words, Chris, but I won't be giving you the chance to act on them," said Wesker coolly. "If you're lucky, perhaps I'll let you speak with your sister again sometime in the near future, providing that she remains obedient."

"Wesker! Don't you dare hang up on—"

Wesker brusquely dropped the phone back into the cradle and Claire ground her teeth as her tormentor walked away. The overwhelming urge to inflict some kind of pain on this bastard was growing. Wesker acted so calm and matter-of-fact, but a razor's edge hid under his every word, almost as if he purposely inciting Chris to new levels of rage. Claire knew from Chris and Jill what had happened at the Arklay Mansion, and she knew Wesker's betrayal had affected her brother deeply, turning his idolization of the S.T.A.R.S. captain into bitter hatred. Wesker seemed to know how to play that to his advantage, it seemed.

Fury swam up inside Claire. She'd been caught off guard when Wesker had handed her the phone. It'd seemed far too trusting of him, but now she realized that "trust" had never been an issue. He'd gone out of his way to prove as much by wrapping the cord around his finger, radiating the threat of punishment like some malevolent god. Giving her the phone had just been an illusion of control, since the ultimate power still rested with Wesker, and he'd flaunted it in her face. Furious and close to tears, Claire groped the desk behind her for something to throw. Her fingers brushed something cold, something heavy, and without thinking she hurled it at Wesker with all her might.

It happened so fast, Claire's brain couldn't really process it until it was too late. In less time than it took to blink, Wesker suddenly vanished, the air seeming to warp and buckle around him. The heavy crystal dish tore through the space his head had occupied a mere second before and struck the wall with an ear-splitting crash, shattering into dozens of pieces. If she'd wanted Wesker's attention, she most definitely had it now. Before she could even think to move, Wesker was suddenly in her face. Knee to the stomach, elbow to the back, and Claire went sprawling to the floor.

_How did he…? That's not possible! Nobody can move that fast!_

Raw, paralyzing fear surged through Claire's system as she struggled to get up, her lungs cramping as she fought for air. Wesker's booted foot came out of nowhere, catching her under the ribs just hard enough to flip her onto her back.

"You just can't learn the difference between bravery and stupidity, can you?" Wesker growled, placing his foot on Claire's shoulder and pinning her down. She gasped and pounded his leg with a fist. "Get off of me!" she yelled.

"Give me one reason why I should," said Wesker coldly, unfazed by her attempts to dislodge him. "I have gone above and beyond for you and this is the gratitude I get: broken property and an attempt to pulverize my skull. After I was generous enough to let you speak with your brother, no less!"

"You did it so you could hurt him!" Claire shouted hoarsely. "I know what you did in that Mansion, how you betrayed everybody! It must have been the proudest moment of your miserable life, telling Umbrella you could hand them an entire squad of test subjects, you sick, murdering—"

Wesker angrily jammed his foot into her shoulder, cutting her off. "Don't test me, Miss Redfield," he snarled. Behind his glasses his eyes were actually burning like live coals. "You weren't there, so don't even think you can dictate to me what went on at Arklay!"

"As if me not being there makes any difference! You tried to murder my brother! Do you know how long he suffered – how long Jill suffered – trying to get over what you and your precious company put them through? Did you get a good laugh as you watched everybody die?"

Wesker let out an animalistic snarl and abruptly took his foot off her shoulder, leaving Claire gasping at the sudden absence of pain. Before she could get her breath, however, Wesker bent down and jerked her to her feet. Claire suddenly found herself face-to-face with the man she hated more than anything else and then she was brutally slammed against the wall. Wesker's hand encircled her throat, lifting her up until her toes barely touched the ground. Frightened and hardly able to breathe, she clawed at his arm.

"Is parroting your brother's sentiments towards me the only thing you're capable of?" Wesker snarled, his eyes blazing murderously. "You know nothing about that night, and if Chris had even once stopped to examine the situation he might be surprised to find that there are things that don't match up with his charming little theories about me."

Claire wrung her fingers into Wesker's sleeve. "Wha… what the hell are you talking about?"

"Ask yourself this: If I was so intent on eliminating the members of Alpha team, why did I go out of my way to aid them in escaping the Mansion? But Chris never told you that, did he? I doubt he even remembers because my actions were so insignificant, but at the time they were all I had the power to achieve. I'm not and will never be inclined to discus the reason why with you, but the final outcome of that night was one I desperately tried to avoid."

Claire couldn't believe she was hearing this. Was Wesker actually making excuses for himself, trying to weasel his way out of his crimes? Claire aimed a kick at his crotch, struggling to escape him. She knew she was just pissing him off, but she didn't care. "You actually expect me to believe that? You're a coward, Wesker! A pathetic c— Ughh!"

She choked as Wesker's fingers jammed into her throat. He'd actually begun to shake with pent up rage. "You may be right about that, Miss Redfield," he growled, "but until you understand the circumstances that forced me to make those decisions, I refuse to put up with any more of your misguided accusations!"

In one swift, violent motion Wesker tore off his sunglasses, letting his murderous red eyes burn into her own. He kept her neck secured with brutal fingers, so she could feel the pulse in her arteries every time her heart pumped blood. She tried to wrench herself free, throwing all of her weight into the effort, but to no avail. Exhausted, she was too out of breath to do anything put gasp as Wesker leaned forward, pinning her to the wall with his body. They were cheek-to-cheek now, his breath whispering along the delicate curve of her ear. "You would do well to remember what I've said, because this is your last warning," he hissed. "The next time you attack me, I will not be so lenient."

Wesker suddenly let go of her and stepped back, leaving Claire to slide down the wall. Clutching her bruised throat, Claire gagged and rasped for breath, her head spinning. Wesker regarded her for a moment, some unidentifiable emotion scoured into the lines of his face, before he angrily spun on his heel and left the room, throwing the door shut behind him with such force the resulting bang echoed around the room. Claire pulled her knees to her chest, wincing at the resounding ache in her body, but she didn't think she was hurt. It was if Wesker knew precisely how much violence could be inflicted on the human body without actually doing serious harm.

Claire's eyes fell on the broken glass littering the floor. Small pieces of licorice were scattered in amidst the broken glass and Claire suddenly realized that she'd thrown the candy dish Wesker kept near his computer, the one and only stint of normality that she'd seen him display. Groaning, Claire shuffled towards the mess, brushing the shattered object with her fingertips. For the first time, she noticed the glass had been etched with a magnificent wreath of roses surrounding the Maltese cross of the Umbrella Corporation. At least that was Claire thought it was. The design was utterly ruined and she felt the smallest pang of sorrow, suddenly regretting throwing the stupid dish in the first place. She grudgingly had to admit that Wesker had every right to be pissed, but upon looking back it suddenly occurred to her that there was more to it.

In the empty clarity of hindsight, Claire found that Wesker had become truly and utterly furious, not when she'd tried to stave in his skull, but when she'd mentioned STARS. It didn't fit at all, and Claire had been so certain he'd take the opportunity to gloat. Inadvertently thinking back on Wesker's words, she felt an unwelcome trickle of doubt seep into her brain and she realized that the man had left her alone with a new demon.

Herself.

Filled with misgivings and maybe even a little fear, Claire didn't speak to Wesker for several days afterwards. In fact, she decided it would be better not to acknowledge him unless it was absolutely necessary and Wesker apparently had the same idea about her. Claire reluctantly swept up the broken candy dish and threw everything in the garbage except for one piece of glass that was large enough to have a whole, mostly intact rose. She didn't know why she bothered, but she couldn't but help but feel a little guilty. And although Wesker's absence was an improvement in many ways, Claire soon found herself growing restless. As much as she loathed admitting it, the solitary confinement was getting on her nerves. This might very well have been Wesker's plan, but if he thought she was going to get on her knees and beg him for freedom, he was in for a rude surprise. She'd throw the phone at him first.

To pass the time, she made herself a cup of tea and went to Wesker's desk to snoop, listening attentively for his footsteps. What she really wanted was something to write with. A plain old yellow tablet would do. Cautiously sitting in Wesker's chair, Claire opened the first drawer. It contained nothing more fascinating than a stack of papers and a collection of CDs labeled with meaningless serial numbers. Claire tried the second drawer, but there was nothing much in that one, either, just everyday office accouterments.

Claire eventually came across several notebooks in the bottom drawer. Thumbing through them, Claire found that she'd managed to locate Wesker's laboratory notes. Page after page was filled with meticulous reports and notations in Wesker's narrow handwriting, though Claire noticed one or two isolated reports where his lettering abruptly became sharper and more angular still, as though he'd wielded the pen like a knife, stabbing and slashing at the paper as he wrote. Claire got the eerie feeling that she didn't want to be anywhere near Wesker when he was in that kind of mood.

Intrigued all the same, however, she read a few pages, but found that she could comprehend very little, save for words like _T-Virus_ and _mutation_ that had a tendency to jump out at her. She wondered why Wesker would leave something as significant as his research logs where she had easy access to them, but then she realized that even she wasn't stupid enough to mess with them and deliberately piss him off. She knew it and he knew it. Scowling, Claire picked up another notebook and discovered that Wesker had only just started writing in it.

Claire looked at Wesker's notes, wondered if they were important, and decided she really didn't give a damn. Gripping the notebook, she tore the first few pages out and considered running them through the shredder just to spite the bastard. She decided against it, however, and stapled them together at the corner before putting them back in the drawer. After pilfering one of Wesker's pens, Claire went to the couch with an expression of unholy glee and began to write.

_August Something_

_Day 14 of captivity in Wesker's lair…_

_Wesker (hereafter referred to as The Bastard) hasn't talked to me much after the incident. I suppose that's a good thing, but the quiet is really starting to stick in my craw. His room is nice enough, though, and I guess I should be thankful I'm not locked in a cell somewhere. It's always warm in here and at least I'm not deprived of food, but that about sums up what I've got to be thankful for in this god-forsaken hole. At least The Bastard hasn't hurt me (not badly, anyway) or tried to force himself on me (although I'm pretty sure he threatened me with it the other day, the sicko) but I honestly don't think I could stop him if he wanted me that way. He's different somehow. Changed. He's faster. Way faster, and I think he's stronger, too. After seeing his eyes, I don't think those damn sunglasses are just for playing poker. _

_Whatever happened to him, I don't think he's completely human anymore. Maybe it's got something to do with the fact that he should be dead. Chris saw the Tyrant stick him like a pig. There's no way anybody could survive that. Maybe he really is the Devil after all, but that's not what's really bothering me. _

Claire paused to think, unable to find the right words to describe what she was feeling. As much as she'd tried not to, she'd been turning Wesker's words around in her head for the past two days, incapable of dismissing them like she so dearly wanted to do. She hated herself for even giving him a second thought and wished the uncertainties he'd planted in her head were physical manifestations that she could punish. Wesker could easily have been lying about Arklay, but Claire couldn't help but think she'd sensed some kind of sincerity.

The anger in his voice had just been too raw.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: What's going on around here? What secret is Wesker hiding? Will Claire ever find out? Maybe. Muhahaha. Anyway, this chapter isn't exactly as long as I wanted it to be, but I couldn't add more without stealing too much from the next part. I tend to write slowly, so I'm trying to stay one chapter ahead of what I'm posting, since I want to keep updating on a regular basis.**

**Kudos to anyone who can tell me what "insignificant actions" Wesker is referring to when he tells Claire about how he supposedly tried to assist STARS in escaping the Mansion. HINT: They only appear in Chris' storyline. Until next week, here's a brief message from the **_**Emergency Alert System**_**: Don't freak out and come after me with pitchforks! I'm not turning Wesker into the "good" guy… but I am providing some extenuating circumstances. ;)**


	5. Chapter 5: the Games We Play

Chapter 5: the Games We Play

Claire wrote in her journal for several hours, alternating between jotting down her thoughts and trying unsuccessfully to do some exercises. With a little difficultly she could do three sit-ups, but anything beyond that was still a no-go. Around ten o'clock that night, the door chimed softly and Wesker came into the room, spooking Claire bad enough to make her jump, especially since she was clutching something of his that she'd commandeered without permission. She schooled a hard expression on her face, inwardly deciding that if Wesker wanted his stupid notebook back he'd just have to come over and get it, but Wesker wasn't paying attention to her. Except for a cursory glance, he ignored her like a fencepost.

Claire watched him go into the bathroom and shut the door. A few minutes later, she heard the gush of running water and Claire wondered if he wore his sunglasses in the shower. The thought was enough to bring a humorless smirk to her lips and she scribbled a grossly exaggerated sketch of Wesker in just such an act. If he took his notebook back, then so much the better. Maybe the look on his face would get her a laugh. Thirty minutes later – Wesker was clearly the sort of person who preened in the shower – the bathroom door opened again, letting a puff of steam and the rich smell of his cologne into the main room. Dressed in black sweatpants and a matching shirt, Wesker marched across the room and promptly got into bed with the air of one following a precise schedule. Setting his glasses on the nightstand, he switched the lights off without a word, plunging the room into near total darkness.

Taken aback, Claire wasn't sure what in the world she was supposed to be thinking at this point. Knowing that Wesker still participated in normal human activities such as showering and sleeping made her feel better somehow, but the emotion was so negligible it was quickly smothered by another, less welcome thought, as Claire suddenly found herself thanking high heaven that she hadn't been in Wesker's bed when he'd decided it was naptime. Except for that first night she'd been staying on Wesker's large couch, too disgusted to sleep in the same space he did. If she _had_ been in his bed, however, she realized that there would have been two possible outcomes. One, Wesker would have just evicted her from his personal space or two, forced her to share the bed with him. Claire shuddered violently at the thought and pushed it from her mind. With Wesker taking charge of the program, it was lights out whether she liked it or not.

Closing her journal, Claire hid it beneath the couch cushions and unfolded the black duvet on the arm of the couch. It and a pillow were the two things she'd been forced to take from Wesker's bed no matter her qualms about touching his personal things. As quietly as she could, as if Wesker was liable to pounce at the slightest noise, Claire laid back and tucked herself under the blanket, wondering if she was going to have trouble falling asleep.

After about twenty minutes, Wesker chuckled quietly in the darkness, making her hairs stand on end. "Am I making you uncomfortable, dear-heart? This is my room, if you recall."

Claire swallowed hard. "Really? I didn't think you ever slept," she replied, nerves making her voice sharp.

"Oh, I sleep, dear-heart, I just require far less of it than a normal human being."

_Ah hah._ Claire lay still for a minute, formulating her reply. She couldn't be sure of the wisdom of crossing mental swords with a dangerous predator she couldn't even see, but Redfields weren't known for keeping their mouths shut. "Well, if you're not human then what are you?" she asked, adding scathingly, "A vampire?"

"My, aren't you the curious one? Perhaps I'll tell you in the morning."

_Damn him._ Claire scowled in the darkness. She couldn't see Wesker's smirk, but she could most definitely feel it, and with that realization all traces of fear fled from her system. Now she just hated him. Claire jerked the blanket more tightly around herself and shut her eyes, refusing to fall into any more of Wesker's traps. He chuckled again and fell silent, and Claire entertained thoughts about taking the lamp, sprinting across the room, and bringing it down on his smug face. What had she ever done to deserve this hell? Claire tried not to think about her brother and willed herself to go to sleep.

It was many hours later, as Claire hovered on the brink between dreams and wakefulness, that she smelled frying eggs. She stirred, her thoughts immediately going to Chris, but a cold dose of reality quickly brought her out of her fantasy. Her brother was miles away and the only person she could except to wake up to was Wesker. But where did eggs fit into all this? Claire warily opened her eyes, finding the room suffused in buttery yellow light spilling in from the open drapes.

The sound of sizzling food brought her attention to the kitchenette in the corner and as she carefully levered herself up, Claire was shocked to see Wesker tending something on the stove.

"Sleep well, dear-heart?" he purred without turning around.

Claire swallowed, certain she was still dreaming. What kind of sick game was he playing now? And with all her Redfield intelligence and wit, she came up with the one word in the entire English language that could possibly sum up what she was feeling. "Huh?"

Wesker chuckled. "Glad to see you awake so early," he remarked. "It makes things much more convenient for me, so if you're finished gawking why don't you make yourself presentable and join me for breakfast. And before your charming tendency for defiance comes into play, let me remind you that you're due for an injection regardless."

Claire glanced at the silver briefcase Wesker had left on the counter. He made it sound like an invitation, but in reality it was anything but and Claire realized she was going to end up going over there no matter what. Gritting her teeth, she shoved the blankets off and stalked into the bathroom. After spending as long as she dared washing up and fixing her hair, she changed into her velour tracksuit and came back out to face Wesker, affixing a blank expression to her face so he couldn't tell how uneasy she was. This was a side of Wesker she hadn't seen before and as she nervously seated herself at the tiny table, she found herself thinking that it made him seem even more dangerous. Turning away from the stove, Wesker slid an omelet onto a plate and set it in front of Claire.

"I hope you're hungry," he said.

Claire glowered at the omelet, noticing a garnish of mushrooms and bell peppers. It smelled so good her mouth watered in spite of herself. She'd never exactly pegged Wesker as Chef Ramsey, but she wasn't going to touch the stupid omelet no matter how good it looked and that was that. Wesker served up another omelet for himself and poured them both a cup of coffee, which Claire suddenly noticed had been perking on the countertop. Her every muscle tensed as the man lowered his tall frame into the chair directly across from her, smirking at her in a way that made her want to run as fast as she could in the opposite direction.

"Eat," Wesker ordered, gesturing at her plate with a fork. "You wouldn't want to hurt my feelings, would you?"

Claire glared daggers at him. "I'm not hungry," she said coolly.

"Oh, but I think you are," Wesker mocked. "Now eat. If I wanted to poison you there are more direct methods. I'm well acquainted with what I keep in my kitchen, dear-heart, and you haven't been eating nearly as well as you should. It would be shame if I spent all this time keeping you alive just for you to die of malnutrition."

Claire fought the urge to lean across the table and stab Wesker with a fork. Despite the assortment of food on hand, Claire had been sustaining herself on cereal and sandwiches, and not because she didn't know how to cook. It just felt wrong eating like a queen on food provided by a murderer, especially since she couldn't be sure what kind of price was attached to it. But when her traitorous stomach mumbled a voiceless plea for sustenance, Claire reluctantly had to admit that Wesker was right. She gained nothing by starving herself. Moving stiffly, she picked up her fork and started in on her omelet. It was a touch too runny, but unfortunately it was also quite delicious.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, but Claire got the uncomfortable feeling that she was being studied. It was only after that she'd finished her omelet did she notice that Wesker was smirking at her over his coffee, which she wasn't surprised to see that he took straight up black.

"See how well we get along when you're not throwing things at me?" he jested, leaning back to pick up the infamous silver attaché case. Claire wordlessly stuck her arm out for him, well used to the routine by now, and forced herself to remain still as Wesker gave her the injection, his gloved fingers sending fine shivers racing across her skin. "Except for our little spat the other day it seems as though you've been behaving yourself," Wesker continued, a hint of smugness in his voice.

Claire briskly pulled her arm out his reach and picked up the sugar, using it to sweeten her coffee. "Yeah, so?" she demanded, taking a sip. "You going to reward me with candy?"

Wesker's smirk grew wider, enjoying her defiance. He uncrossed his legs and stood, taking his white lab coat off the back of his chair. Wonderful. What kind of nasty voodoo did he bring in on that? Claire risked a glance up at him and was disconcerted to see him smiling. "Actually, I had a different reward in mind, dear-heart," he said, putting his hand out for her to take. "How would you like a tour of the facility?"

Claire wasn't sure whether to laugh or recoil in fear. Wesker's hand hovered over the table, waiting for her choose, and Claire was overwhelmed by the sudden urge to accept his offer. She needed to find out more about the layout of the island, not to mention the fact that she found herself welcoming the opportunity to leave this room and walk around a bit. Claire stood up, ignoring Wesker's proffered hand, and angled her body towards the door, indicating her willingness to leave. Wesker chuckled, not at all offended by this snub, and led her out of the room. Out in the corridor, Claire felt as though she'd had a religious experience of some kind and this new privilege, even if it was at the end of a leash, was a welcome change.

Just then, however, Wesker caught her by the chin and turned her to face him, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Now let's get one thing straight," he said. "I'm letting you have some freedom only because you seem to be rotting in that room, but I'm only giving you one chance. Betray my trust and you'll go right back into your cage. Understand?"

Claire bit back an angry remark and nodded submissively, knowing it was what he wanted. She had to pick her battles carefully. Making a quiet noise of satisfaction, Wesker folded her hand into the crook of his arm and steered her down the corridor. Like the room they'd just exited, most of the décor wouldn't have looked out of place in medieval Europe save for the varnished wooden floors and fluorescent lighting. Seeing that this theme wasn't unique to Wesker's room made Claire extremely curious to where they were and she tried to take in as much as she could.

"Trying to get a fix on your location? I'm afraid you won't find many clues," Wesker laughed.

Claire ignored him as they walked. They passed a lot of people in the corridors, but none of them spared her more than a curious glance, though they all had a polite smile for Wesker. _Talk about irony. Nobody even has a clue that I'm here against my will_, thought Claire bitterly, marveling at Wesker's audacity. Most kidnappers hid their victims in dark basements and closets cut off from the outside world. Wesker let her stroll along with him like a guest and nobody was any the wiser. So much so, in fact, Claire had an inkling that even screaming bloody murder wouldn't help.

"I'm surprised you're so quiet," said Wesker after a moment. "What are you thinking about?"

"Oh, I was just wondering where you keep the T-Virus," Claire shot back, leaving him little room for doubt.

"Someplace you'll never see," said Wesker simply. "It may surprise you, but Umbrella has hundreds of departments that don't even know such viruses still exist, let alone come into contact with them. Most of the main facility is comprised of medical labs and their corresponding R & D divisions. All of the Hot Labs are secured 600 feet below ground."

"600 feet, huh? I'll be sure to remember that, because when I get out of here I'm going to the nearest military base and inquiring what yield a bunker buster I'll need to get that deep," Claire promised.

Wesker snorted, amused. "Is that a threat, dear-heart? Because if it is, it's a poor one."

Claire scowled fiercely and made no reply. She wanted very much to rip her hand out of Wesker grasp, but something told her that the pressure of his fingers was liable to turn brutal at the slightest attempt to escape. And it wasn't as if she could evade him for long even if she did manage to free herself. She'd already tried that once before. All she could do was keep up with Wesker as he deftly threaded his way through the occasional gaggle of scientists, but it wasn't long before her muscles were burning. She was just about to choke down her pride and ask Wesker for a break when he ushered her into an elevator.

Claire wearily leaned against the wall, trying to catch her breath, as Wesker tapped the control panel. She felt the elevator give a small, downward jerk and the faint hum of machinery filled the air. Claire tried to ignore the fact that her legs were trembling slightly, and not just because she was tired. She didn't think Wesker would go through all the trouble to cook her breakfast just to stuff her into a test tube, but she couldn't really be sure. Just then, the elevator came to a gentle stop and the doors swished open. Wesker smiled and gripped Claire's hand. "Shall we go?"

Inhaling deeply, Claire stepped out into the corridor. The first thing she noticed was the abundance of sunshine streaming in from the large glass windows mounted high in the ceiling, which was vaulted and immensely high. The hallway was filled with people on their way to different parts of the facility and the noise was bright and animated, every bit a normal working environment. Claire had to wonder if she'd really expected lines of prisoners in chains with armed guards escorting them at gunpoint. Feeling very out of place, Claire thought she smelled wet dirt and flowers, something that smelled very much like columbine. She glanced around, noting various doors and hallways branching off from the main route. A huge glass dome was partially visible through one of the windows and that was where Wesker was leading her.

Stopping at a heavy aluminum door, Wesker unclipped an ID card from the front of his jacket and swiped it through a nearby reader. The panel instantly went from red to green and there was a _clunk_ as heavy metal tumblers turned inside the door. Smiling like the perfect gentleman, Wesker guided Claire into the next room. Claire braced herself for a bloody torture chamber, but was shocked to discover that the room was filled with hundreds of plants growing in raised beds, many of which Claire had no name for. The air in here was warm and muggy, heavy with the perfume of a hundred flowers.

Awed by the sight, Claire tipped her head back to stare at the ceiling. It ran the length of the greenhouse like the top half of a massive pipe, its glass panels reinforced by a web of metal struts. The hot sunlight felt amazing on Claire's cheeks and she found herself wanting to close her eyes in order to savor the moment. She never would have guessed something this incredible had been on the island.

"Not what you were expecting, dear-heart?" Wesker asked, obviously satisfied by her reaction.

"No," Claire admitted at length. Even the Devil deserved his due. "What do you need all this for?"

"You would be surprised how many useful compounds can be found in plants," Wesker answered. "The main component for aspirin, acetylsalicylic acid, is extracted from willow bark as you probably already know, and my staff has recently discovered a tentative treatment for lymphatic cancer in a rare South American tree. I trust you haven't forgot that I run a major pharmaceutical company?"

"Yeah, _Our Business is Life Itself_," Claire snorted in disgust. "You're the leader in alternative medicine, you are."

Wesker smiled, flashing his perfectly straight teeth. "As a matter of fact, we are," he said. "There are many things that can be treated with minimal usage of synthetic chemicals. In some cases, such remedies actually work better than ones that have been artificially manufactured, so Umbrella prides itself on being the cutting edge of botanical research."

Claire shook her head, refusing to buy it. While she agreed with Wesker that plants frequently produced better medicine than man, Claire couldn't help but wonder how many of Umbrella's over-the-counter medicines were laced with T-Virus and conveniently set up to be recalled when people started turning into zombies after a month or so of use. But that didn't matter to Umbrella or Wesker. Deaths were just statistics to be added up later, a minor side effect to be pushed aside for the greater good. It was sick and wrong, and Claire didn't care about the rationale behind it.

"Human lives are not figures on a slip of paper," she said to Wesker, "so I don't give a damn about your high-and-mighty garden or your research because I know what you're doing with it down below. The way you see it, Raccoon City was just a slipup. You don't care about how many lives you ruin or how many people you hurt."

Wesker stared at her for a long moment. "You really believe that, dear-heart?"

"Yes. Yes, I do."

Claire risked a glance into Wesker's face and was dismayed to see a slow, wicked smile spread across his lips. "Well, we'll have to see about changing your mind, now won't we?" he said, turning and moving towards a table that was set with beakers, plastic eyedroppers, and several large orchids with cream-colored flowers.

Placing a hand over the cold pit of dread that had formed in her stomach, Claire hastily left Wesker to wander around the greenhouse. She was unsure if he'd permit it at first, but when the man didn't come after her she figured that she was allowed to move around on her own. It sickened her to think that she was on this man's leash, like a child asking a parent's permission to run around the playground. Claire pressed deeper into the greenhouse and had to marvel at its size, since it was easily the size of a football field, but despite the large quantity of plants everything was laid out in an orderly grid, with clearly marked linoleum walkways leading through the tangle of foliage.

It wasn't long before Claire became uncomfortably warm in her jacket, so she took it off and knotted the sleeves around her waist, trying not to feel self-conscious. There were a handful of other people in the greenhouse besides her, but most everybody she passed was wearing a pristine white lab coat, whereas she looked as though she'd just came in from a jog. However, nobody was rude enough to point this out, for which Claire was grateful. She had no idea what to say if somebody came up to her and started asking questions, like who she was and where she was from.

_Oh, my name's Claire Redfield and Wesker kidnapped me because I came down with one of his viruses, so now I'm wandering the greenhouse because letting me out for a jaunt is his way of exercising the prisoner._

Claire turned a corner, coming upon a massive bed of roses. Several distinct species were kept in this corner of the greenhouse, ranging from miniature yellow tea roses to huge, leafy bushes that were almost as tall as she was. Some were streaked and speckled, others were bold and one color only, but they all smelled just wonderful. Claire stopped to sniff each one, relishing the subtle differences in scent. She wanted to take a few pink ones back in a vase, but she didn't think Wesker would take kindly to having his prize roses harvested.

Moving down the row, Claire eventually came up and tray of roses that seemed miserably wilted, its dark garnet red flowers hanging limp. Claire felt a sudden pang of sorrow for the dying flower and she looked around for a hose to give it water. Considering the vibrant state of the rest of the greenhouse, she couldn't understand why they'd leave this particular rose to die and she could only conclude that it'd stopped being useful to Wesker, the cruel bastard. Coming forward, she found a half-empty watering can and gave the roses what was left, though in hindsight she realized that the soil had already been moist. Water clearly wasn't the problem, then. Claire looked around for someone to ask when she spotted a woman attentively bent over a microscope on the other side of the greenhouse.

"Hey. Excuse me," Claire called, going over before she could change her mind. "Ma'am, do you think I could ask you a question?"

The woman turned around, surprised, and Claire realized that she wasn't nearly old enough to be addressed as _ma'am_. Dressed in a skirt and blouse, her shining blond hair worn loose and straight, she looked barely older than fifteen, and even that was pushing it. Looking into the girl's eyes, however, Claire stopped short. There was something terribly familiar about those liquid blue orbs with far more maturity than was strictly normal.

"Oh, my God… _Sherry_?"

Sherry, and Claire had no doubt that it was Sherry, stared at her for the space of several heartbeats, shocked recognition dawning on her features. "…Claire? Oh, Claire, it's so good to see you!"

She eagerly came forward, looking as though she wanted nothing more in the world than to give Claire a hug, but still hesitating to do so. Claire swept the tall girl into her arms, a confusing mixture of relief, shock and guilt swelling in her chest. It was a surreal moment. Sherry had grown substantially over the past few years, and her figure hinted that she was rapidly maturing in other places, too.

"I didn't know you were here," said Sherry. "If I did, I'd have come to see you!"

Claire didn't know what to say. "Oh, that's… that's okay," she managed. "I haven't been here that long, and I didn't know you were here, either. So we're even. I'm just glad you're safe."

"Safe?" Sherry pulled back to arm's length. "Why wouldn't I be safe? Oh."

Understanding bloomed in Sherry's eyes and she shifted nervously, biting her lower lip. "I… I wanted to write you, but Uncle Albert said it would be better if I didn't, that you wouldn't understand," she whispered. "I'm sorry. You and Leon worked so hard to keep me safe, and you've been worrying about me ever since. I'm so, so sorry, Claire!"

"No, don't be sorry! You didn't do anything," said Claire quickly, her head spinning. She and Leon had been forced to give Sherry into government custody directly after Raccoon City, never guessing that several higher-ups planned to use her as a bribe to get Leon to work for them. And it had worked, since he hadn't gone to DC for the cherry trees. Still, it'd been a working arrangement, if not a desirable one, but that all changed when Wesker came back from the dead. A few months after the events on Rockfort Island, Leon had gone to visit Sherry like he'd promised and walked into the scene of a massacre. Claire could plainly remember him telling her the story of how he'd found most of the guards either dead or dying in the lobby, with a man Leon identified as Wesker putting Sherry in the front seat of an unmarked black Audi. He'd killed two Marines and hospitalized seven just to get to her, and Sherry honestly referred to him as _Uncle Albert_? What on earth had he done to the poor girl's mind?

"Claire, what's wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Knowing that Sherry had a special immunity to the G-Virus, Claire had been so sure Wesker had taken her for his experiments with full intentions to discard her when he'd finished, but seeing her alive and well threw that assumption into serious hot water. Claire was no longer certain what to think, but she realized Wesker didn't need to be cruel in order to keep Sherry under his thumb. After all, he hadn't treated _her_ badly during her stay with him.

"You do mean Wesker when you talk about your uncle, right?" Claire fumbled helplessly, praying that it was some other Albert. _Yeah, right. There's so many of them, it's easy to get confused._

"Well, he's not my _real _uncle, but he's been around so much he might as well be," said Sherry. "Why? Don't you like him? I guess I can see why you'd think he'd want to hurt me after he killed all those guards, but it's not like they were going to let me come back, so they deserved what they got."

Claire's mouth moved soundlessly. "Sherry… you don't really mean that, do you?"

"Of course I mean it! I didn't want to stay in their building like a prisoner. I'm not stupid, you know. I know they were using me to get Leon to do their dirty work. My home is with daddy and Uncle Albert, and that's the way I wanted it," said Sherry, her eyes flashing. The cold gleam died quickly, though, and was replaced with sorrow. "Can you… can you tell Leon I'm sorry, too? I never wanted you to worry about me," she added in a much lower voice.

Claire bit her lip. "Sure, Sherry. I can tell him that," she said. _If I ever get the chance to talk to him again._

"Thank you." Sherry gripped both of Claire's hands, looking imploringly at her. "Um… do you think I could ask you something else? I don't want to bother you or anything."

"You're not bothering me," said Claire, suddenly catching a glimpse of the shy, unconfident little girl she'd rescued in Raccoon City. "What is it?"

"…Would you come to dinner tonight? There's so much I want to tell you about everything! Please?"

Claire smiled. "I'd like that, Sherry, I really would, but I'm not sure Wesker…" she trailed off, unsure how to say it.

"What about me, dear-heart?" asked a deep voice and Claire's stomach jumped into her throat. She spun around to see Wesker standing just a few yards away, his arms folded across his chest. Claire gulped, hating him more than ever, but Sherry's face broke into a wide grin. "You're mean, Uncle Albert! You didn't tell me Claire was on the island."

Wesker shrugged. "I had more important things to think about. What a happy coincidence you happened to be in the greenhouse today, my dear," he said to Sherry and something dark, something smug slid though his expression, gliding beneath those jet-black sunglasses.

"That's okay. I was just asking Claire to come over and have dinner with us."

Wesker twitched a smirk. "Were you now? And what did she say?" he said, looking at Claire.

Claire felt something cold and uncomfortable settle into her stomach, but she couldn't very well say no to the pleading in Sherry's eyes. "Sure, why not?" she answered, watching Wesker closely. "What time were you thinking?"

"Oh, I don't know… around 6:00, I guess," said Sherry. "Will you come, too, Uncle Albert?"

"No. I'm afraid I'm much too busy," said Wesker.

"Oh." Sherry's expression fell slightly. "Maybe another time?"

"Maybe another time," Wesker agreed. "I was just about to leave the greenhouse and I assumed Miss Redfield wouldn't enjoy being locked in." His gaze moved from Sherry back to Claire, who wished he'd take off those damned sunglasses and at least give her a chance to read what he was thinking. "However, I'm sure Sherry wouldn't mind retrieving you later this evening if you'd prefer to stay," he added, almost as an afterthought.

Claire weighed her options. She didn't want to test the limits of Wesker's so-called generosity, but she really didn't want to go back to his room, either. "I'll stay," she said at length, choosing her savor her freedom while it lasted.

Wesker nodded and turned away, surprising Claire with his lack of hostility. She watched him until he disappeared into the tangle of foliage and was lost from view, leaving her with more than a few unanswered questions. She pushed them aside, however, as Sherry timidly offered to take her on an extended tour of the greenhouse. She accepted gratefully, suddenly remembering why she'd called out to Sherry in the first place.

"Just one question. What's wrong with that rose?" Claire gestured towards the dying plant.

"Oh, that," said Sherry. "The botanists call it a _Black Magic_ rose, some kind of rare variety from Austria or something. Nobody can quite figure out how to properly care for it, so all the shipments end up dying. I don't know. It's just finicky, I guess."

Claire felt total sympathy. She knew exactly how the poor rose felt, getting abducted and flown to God-knows where to be kept prisoner. She briefly wondered if there was something she could do for it, maybe give it fertilizer or something, but Sherry was already taking her arm and leading her away. She started by tentatively pointing out a few of the more interesting plants, and with some coaxing she soon relaxed and grew more talkative. Claire found that she enjoyed the girl's company and spent the remainder of the afternoon absorbing everything that Sherry had to say. However, Sherry ultimately had to excuse herself, saying that she had to set things up for dinner, among other things that kept her on a strict schedule. When pressed for what these things were, Sherry's only response was that she'd tell Claire later.

Left alone in the greenhouse, Claire wandered around a bit longer, feeling suddenly lost, so when she came upon a door that lead out into a small, adjoining courtyard, she gladly took the opportunity to investigate. Minus the greenhouse, the courtyard completely boxed in by three massive stone ramparts. A well-trimmed hedge ran along the perimeter, as did a collection of wooden benches. Feeling a deep weariness settling in her limbs, Claire went over and sat down. The sunlight was very warm, a nice offset to the cool, salt-smelling breeze. If she listened very carefully, Claire thought she could hear the crash of the ocean and she suddenly felt very alone. She still had so many unanswered questions about Sherry, about Wesker, about her eventual fate. Would Wesker ever let her go back to Chris, or was she doomed to spend the rest of her life as a prisoner like Sherry? Feeling sick and suddenly very tired, Claire lay sideways on the bench and used her arm as a pillow, not caring if people stared. She only meant to shut her eyes for a few moments, but the warm sunlight and the far-off crying of gulls soon lulled her into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Bet you weren't expecting that one, were you? :P Okay, maybe you were. It's kind of obvious. How will Sherry's presence affect Claire's opinion of Wesker? There's more going on around here than what's immediately apparent. What kind of juicy, earth-shattering revelations await Claire at dinner? Tune in next week to find out! I already have that chapter mostly written. **

**Unfortunately, I haven't been very inspired to write lately. We're getting ready to repaint the kitchen, and I'm currently afflicted with a serious crush on Prince Nuada. As a result, I have given in to my fangirl desires and have been spending a lot of my free time reading fanfics centering on him. Blame **_**Hellboy II**_** for being on Dish Network the other night. If anyone here is a fan of the Prince and sympathizes with his ideals as I do, you ****need**** to go read the story called _Orchid _by Ariana Lussier_. _(I would post the full link, but FF keeps chopping off the first part. Stupid formatting.) Anyway, the story's**** got an amazing plot and is extremely well written! Just use the search. **

**Congratulations to _midnighrunner_ for being the first person to correctly guess what Wesker's "actions" were in the previous chapter. Cookies and kudos! A great big thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed so far, and that includes the anonymous ones. ^_^**


	6. Chapter 6: Closer to the Truth

Chapter 6: Closer to the Truth

When Claire awoke again, it was because someone was shaking her shoulder. "Claire? Claire, wake up."

Claire jumped and sat up, nearly banging heads with Sherry. The blonde girl sprang back with a look of surprise. "Oh, Claire, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to scare you!"

"No, that's… that's okay," Claire mumbled, putting a hand to her head to combat the sudden spinning. Looking groggily around, she found that the sun had left the courtyard, leaving everything suffused in soft hues of blue and grey, with a tinge of rose glowing on the very top of the ramparts. Claire suddenly realized that she was uncomfortably chilled and she rubbed her arms, wondering how she could have possibly stayed asleep for so long. Her face felt unusually tender, and a noticeable stiffness permeated her muscles.

Sherry nervously helped her up. "Have you been asleep all day?" she wondered, her eyes wide. "You must have been really tired. Oh, no. Look, you're sunburnt! Do you want to go somewhere and wash up before we go?"

Claire nodded, embarrassed. "You sure you don't mind?" she asked.

"Yes, I'm sure. Where are you staying on the island?"

"Oh, uh… with Wesker," Claire forced out, flushing. She had no choice but to be honest, but it sounded dirty somehow, like she was sleeping with him or something equally perverted. The mere thought was enough to make her want to hurl, but Sherry didn't seem to notice or even care, so Claire awkwardly moved to follow her. With the exception of one or two people, most of the researchers had left the greenhouse for the evening. The cool air was heavy with the scent and sound of water, indicating that the sprinkler system was on. Claire's sneakers squeaked on the wet linoleum, and she had time to reflect on how much quieter things were in the evening. The hustle and bustle of the daylight hours was gone.

Leaving the greenhouse, they rode the elevator up a few floors as Sherry took her straight to Wesker's room, moving with the confidence of somehow who was intimately familiar with their way around the facility. Claire felt an abrupt thrill of panic upon realizing that she didn't have the card for Wesker's room, but Sherry reached into her pocket and swiped her ID without hesitation, opening the door and letting them into the room.

"How many people around here can go in here besides Wesker?" Claire asked before she could stop herself.

"Just me, daddy, and Mr. Krauser, the Captain of the Guard," said Sherry, stepping just inside the door, but no further. She clearly wasn't permitted, or didn't think she was permitted, in Wesker's room unless he was in it. Claire hastened into the bathroom, frustrated to see that the sun had indeed turned her face bright pink, not to mention her neck and some of her chest. Turning on the cold water, she splashed some on her skin and combed wet fingers through her hair, wishing she had something better to wear to dinner. She doubted Sherry would mind if she showed up in sweats, but still, it wasn't exactly proper. Putting her jacket back on, Claire tried to smooth some of the wrinkles out of it and was unsuccessful. Coming out of the bathroom, she hastily tossed it onto the couch and picked up one of the black sweatshirts Wesker had given her to wear. It wasn't much better, but it'd have to do.

"Sorry," she said apologetically. "I really didn't mean to sleep so long."

The two women left Wesker's room, with Sherry making absolutely sure to lock the door behind them. Claire expected to go back to the elevator and was surprised when Sherry took her down the hall in the opposite direction. She was wearing modest high-heels, and her footsteps clacked softly on the varnished floor. They passed into a large cloister off the main hall and Claire just had to gawk. There was no longer any doubt in her mind that she was in a castle, so she felt confident that the island was located somewhere off the European coast. Claire considered asking Sherry for clarification, but decided against it for the time being. She didn't want to ruin the evening with suspicious questions. Sherry took her down a small flight of stairs and into another corridor. This one had tapestries hanging on the wall in shades of green, brown and antique gold. Sherry stopped at the third door and turned to grin at Claire.

"You know, I'm really happy you could come," she said. "When I told daddy, he actually had the cafeteria make us something special. He said he's really eager to meet you under better circumstances than last time."

At last, something shifted inside Claire's head. She'd heard Sherry refer to her father more than once during the past few hours, but it hadn't actually clicked until now. Sherry was daughter of William Birkin, and it wasn't as if Claire was going to forget about Birkin, since the scientist-turned-homicidal-monster had chased her through Raccoon City and even injected his own daughter with a G-embryo. Remembering the scope of Birkin's mutation and the resulting loss of his intelligence and higher brain functions, not to mention how many times she'd shot him, Claire was at a loss to how he could have survived, barring the possibility of being a complete mental vegetable. Sherry had to be talking about another man, so the title "daddy" was probably honorific, just like "uncle" Albert.

Claire reminded herself to be polite in either case and looked around curiously as they entered the room, finding it very different to what she was used to seeing with Wesker. Whereas the floor in Wesker's room had been made of varnished wood, Claire's shoes made absolutely no noise on Sherry's thick, beige-pink carpet. From what she could see of the living room, the furniture was overstuffed and homey, and looked much more inviting than Wesker's sophisticated collection of mahogany and leather. The most obvious difference between rooms, however, had to be the bookcases. Wall to wall, they contained more volumes than Claire had ever seen outside a public library.

"Sherry? If that's you, I could use some help!"

Noise in the kitchen, which was partitioned off from the rest of the room, drew Claire's attention. Coming to stand just inside the door, Claire was faced with a tall, lanky man trying to pull some Tupperware out of a bag. The difficulty, Claire saw, arose from the fact that his right arm was in a sling. Sherry quickly moved into the kitchen and tugged the cumbersome plastic casserole dish from the bag, placing it on the table.

Sherry gave the man a kiss on the cheek, then turned to smile at Claire. "Claire, I know you've already met before… well, sort of," Sherry cleared her throat uncomfortably, "but I'd like to introduce my father. Daddy, this is Claire, the one I told you about."

Claire studied the man as he turned, recognition already kindling inside her. William Birkin was a boyishly handsome sort of man who looked like he was just hours shy of needing a proper shave, although Claire got the feeling that this was more due to fashion than laziness. However, Birkin's mutation had clearly not been without a price. A thick, ropy scar disfigured the right side of his face, dropping down and extending well below the level of his carelessly loosened necktie. Claire forced herself not to stare, instead meeting Birkin's eyes. For some reason they reminded her of the sea, bright, blue-green, and sparkling.

"So this is Claire, huh?" Moving forward, Birkin held his hand – his left hand – out to shake. Claire awkwardly extended the corresponding limb, feeling the man's soft fingers close around her hand with deceptive strength. "My daughter's told me so much about you," said Birkin softly. "You have no idea how grateful I am for what you did for her."

Claire flushed. "I… It was nothing," she mumbled.

"Somehow I knew you were going to say that," Birkin laughed. "But believe when I say that in my book, what you did hardly qualifies as "nothing". Sherry was a complete stranger to you, but you went out of your way to keep her safe, even risking your life to protect her from… from what I was." Birkin looked at her with a touch of sadness, as if he could communicate a thousand words with his gaze alone. "You are a very strong, very brave girl, Claire. And I'm very sorry for whatever hardships I caused you."

Claire swallowed, embarrassed and sad all at once. She gave Birkin's hand a squeeze, quite unsure what to think of the man. He was a top Umbrella researcher and very much to blame for the tragedy of Raccoon City, but Claire couldn't help but think that he seemed like a nice person when it came down to it. And he was a father. Arguably not a very good one, but a father nonetheless. "You don't have to thank me, Mr. Birkin," said Claire, trying to smile. "Sherry and I are friends, and since we're alive and all… well, let's just forget about it. No sense in bringing up bad memories."

"Spilled milk, huh? I guess that's fair," Birkin offered her a relieved sort of smile and turned back to the table. "I hope you like lasagna and garlic bread. I had it made special just for tonight."

Sherry smiled and leaned close to Claire. "Told you," she whispered.

Claire watched Birkin open a nearby cupboard and fish inside for plates, turning sideways to accommodate his good arm. Claire hesitantly moved forward. "Do you need some help?" she asked, trying not to be offensive.

"Nope. Sherry and I can handle it. You just sit down. You're the guest of honor after all." Birkin pulled down a stack of plates and set them on the counter, winking at her out of the corner of his eye. "Besides, I'm not as helpless as I look."

Moving with the ease of practice, Birkin flipped the top plate into the air and let it spin on his finger before depositing it on the table, grinning cheekily. Claire had no choice but to smile back as she seated herself at the table, knowing that any more offers to help would be rude. She wondered how Birkin had broken his arm, since it was apparent that it'd been in a sling for some time. _Long enough for him to get used to it, anyway._

Moving like a well-organized team, Sherry and her father set the table in record time, and Sherry began dishing out food. Claire realized that she was really quite hungry. Not counting Wesker's devious omelet, this would be the first real meal she'd had in over two weeks. There was something about the kitchen that made her feel comfortable, though the term had become somewhat of a misnomer. Being "comfortable" of late simply meant that she wasn't in any immediate danger of having Wesker try to choke her, since that seemed to be his favorite little power fetish.

"Alright," said Birkin, sitting down and picking up a plastic wine glass filled with cider. "I hereby declare a toast. For Claire and for new beginnings."

Claire had to wonder at Birkin's choice of words, but she picked up her glass and touched it to his with a smile. The cider was so cold it numbed her throat on the way down and she got the feeling that it'd been in the freezer until just a minute ago. The lasagna was very good, served with thick slices of melted cheese and garlic bread. She'd fully expected dinner to be a strained and tense sort of affair, but something about Birkin made it easy to open up. The table talk was pleasant enough for a group of near total strangers, occasionally punctuated by Sherry's timid laughter. Claire could tell by the way she sat that the young girl was trying hard to just be herself. Throughout dinner, her hand kept straying to her pocket.

"It's okay, Sherry," said Birkin gently. "You can show Claire."

Claire looked at the girl, confused by the exchange, and couldn't deny a flash of curiosity when Sherry pulled out a folded piece of paper. "I… I wanted to show you this," she whispered, glancing sideways at her father for approval. "I've been taking classes in virology and got my first degree."

Sherry nervously handed Claire the paper and she unfolded it to find a photocopy of a diploma. An on-and-off college girl herself, Claire had no trouble recognizing the prestigious school. "Wow, Sherry. This is amazing!"

"I've got the original one framed in my room," said Sherry proudly.

Claire looked at the diploma again, then back to Sherry. "Geez, you're not even out of high-school and you're raking in degrees like this? That's mind boggling," said Claire, unable to explain the sudden pang in her gut. Another look at the diploma didn't change the fact that it read _Advanced Virology and the Study of Organic Chemistry_. Claire knew she should be happy for Sherry, but she couldn't help but feel angry somehow. Sherry was barely old enough to drive and the world of Umbrella had already set its claws into her.

"So, you're really into this kind of thing, huh?" Claire pressed carefully.

"Of course. I want to be just like my daddy and Uncle Albert. The things they do… they're great men, Claire."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure they are," Claire managed, forcing a smile, but the way Sherry's expression suddenly fell sent up all kinds of red flags. "What's wrong? You don't approve, do you?" Sherry asked, and the cool look in her eyes straddled the border between disappointed and accusing.

Claire swallowed, unnerved by how easily the young girl had seen through her. "Sherry, I don't think there's anything wrong with what you're studying. In fact, I think it's great that you're smart enough to even do it," said Claire, feeling like she was trying to defuse a bomb. Across the table, Birkin had a very strained look on his face.

"Then what is it?" Sherry demanded, but when Claire didn't answer right away, understanding gleamed in those eerie blue eyes. "It's because of Uncle Albert, isn't it? You don't want me to be like him."

"Sherry." Birkin's voice held a very distinct warning note.

Claire gulped, fumbled for an answer. "Look, I'll admit that I don't like Wesker, but—"

"Liar. You hate him," Sherry corrected viciously. "So does that mean you hate daddy, too?"

"No! Sherry, please, that's not what I mean at all!"

"Yes, it is!"

"That doesn't mean I've got anything against you or what you're doing in school, I promise!" Claire shot back. "Wesker's done some bad things, Sherry, and if you don't want to see that than that's fine, but don't expect me to like him. I just want to make sure you're doing what _you_ want to do, not what HE wants you to do."

Sherry abruptly stood up, snatching her diploma off the table. "Uncle Albert is not a bad man!" she declared, her voice rising shrilly. "Whatever you've heard, it's not true! And if I grow up to be just like him, then I'll be proud of it!"

Turning on her heel, Sherry stormed out of the room, her blonde hair flying behind her. Claire started to get up, desperate to call after her, but Birkin reached out and touched her shoulder. "No, let her go," he said quietly.

"Mr. Birkin, I… I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to…"

"I know you didn't. And please, call me William. Or just plain old Birkin if you can't handle a first name basis." Birkin glanced after Sherry and heaved a sigh. "Would you like a drink? You are old enough to drink, right?" he asked somberly, getting to his feet.

Claire hesitated a moment and then nodded, mostly because it felt like the correct response. Going to the cupboard, Birkin pulled out two fluted shot glasses, then retrieved a tall amber bottle from the next room. Sitting back down, he poured two glasses of liquor and nudged one towards Claire. Feeling utterly confused and guilty, Claire picked up the glass, but didn't take a drink.

"Sherry's always been a shy girl," said Birkin. "As a child, her mother and I were never around. Our work kept us from being what you would call normal parents, and the worst part was we didn't even stop to question it. There were times in Sherry's life when Albert was around more than her own mother and father, so you can't blame her for idolizing him."

Claire decided not to say anything and just let Birkin continue.

"After I," Birkin swallowed hard, "accidently killed my own wife, I realized how wrong I was on several accounts. When Albert saved me, I was determined to set things straight."

"But you turned into a monster," said Claire. "In Raccoon City, I mean. How did you…?"

"How did I survive? I only remember bits and pieces of the whole affair, but I do know that Albert had Umbrella's militia pull me out of the city before they dropped the nuke. He spent months synthesizing a way to reverse my mutation, so I'm grateful just to be alive. After everything, it's not like I care too much about my physical appearance."

Birkin rubbed his scarred face and Claire noticed for the first time that his right arm – the one bound in a sling – was actually severely twisted and deformed, the fingers of his hand curled rigidly inward. Claire suddenly had an image of that arm swollen and twisted with G-Virus, his mutation warping muscle and bone. The mere fact that Birkin was alive and well was a testament to the power of Wesker's twisted science. Claire tried to imagine him working to save this man, somebody he obviously had some feelings for, unless he'd resurrected Birkin purely for his viral know-how. It was entirely possible, after all.

"Look, if you're trying to sing Wesker's praises for him, I really don't care," said Claire. "Even I were to suddenly forget every other cruel and deceitful thing he's done, how do you explain kidnapping and murder?"

"If you're talking about what happened with Sherry, then the answer's simple. I asked him to," said Birkin. "I'd already lost my wife, Claire. Can you understand how badly I wanted my daughter? It would have taken years to get her back through normal channels. It's hard enough to wade through the trials and bureaucracy without being a man who's known to be associated with Umbrella, which at the time was being accused of truly horrible things. Albert gave me another chance to be with my only daughter and you expect me to fault him for that? I'm sorry, but I can't."

Claire was briefly at a loss for words. A new and unwelcome notion had just entered her mind. If Birkin had wanted his daughter back… and Sherry had wanted to return… did Wesker's actions still qualify as kidnapping? Or had it been a rescue? Claire was no longer sure. She lifted the tumbler of liquor and took a tiny sip. It went down smooth and thick, and tasted strongly of hazelnut. "That doesn't excuse everything else he's done," said Claire at length.

"No. No, it doesn't." Birkin agreed. "But, Claire… there are things about Albert that you don't know."

"Yeah, like what?" Claire challenged.

"It's not my place to tell you. If you want to know, you'll have to ask him. He… We," Birkin amended, "have done some questionable things in our lives. You know what happened in Raccoon City. I'm responsible for the deaths of thousands of people, and I have to live with that. Albert is no different. We have lived in this world – the world of Umbrella – for too long to change, Claire. Nobody can change the tragedies of the past."

Something about the unhappy way Birkin talked made Claire feel as though there was something he wasn't telling her. The unmistakable shadow of fear suddenly made his eyes seem very dark, but there was something else there, too. It gave Claire the impression of guilt, or maybe regret.

"What is it you're trying to tell me, exactly? That Wesker's really a good person?" she asked, trying not to let her sarcasm show.

"Yes, but I'm not trying to force you to change you're mind about anything. I'm only telling you that you don't have all the facts and without them you can't possibly form an accurate conclusion. That's the first rule of science. As for Sherry, all I ask is that you be gentle with her when judging Albert. She may be growing up on the outside, but inside she's still just a little girl who loves her uncle too much."

Claire sighed. "Alright," she agreed. "I guess I can do that."

Birkin smiled wanly. "Thank you. Well, seeing as dinner's pretty much over, perhaps it would be best if you headed back." He finished his liquor and stood up, extending his hand to Claire. "I truly am very grateful for the opportunity to talk to you. I hope you know that."

Claire shook his hand. "Me, too," she said, and strangely enough she meant it.

"Here. Take my ID. You'll need it to get into Albert's room," said Birkin, unclipping the laminated card from his jacket. Claire felt a surge of unease and didn't take it. "Mr. Birkin, I… I don't think..."

"Don't worry about it. I know you're staying with him for some type of medical treatment, so you don't have to explain anything. Albert plays his cards close to his chest, but I'm pretty good at prying on his fingers." Birkin gestured at the swatch of bandaging peeking out of Claire's sleeve. "You can just have him bring it back to me in the morning."

Claire took the ID card, realizing that Birkin had known far more about her than he'd let on. She swallowed, unsure whether to feel grateful or miffed. "Thank you," she mumbled, settling on the first.

"No problem. Can you find your way back alright?"

Claire assured him that she could. Wesker's room wasn't that far. Night had finally fallen out in the corridor, but by no means was the facility dark. The overhead fluorescents had been turned off, but a dazzling mixture of white and amber light poured in through the windows. Claire walked over and peered out, realizing that numerous spotlights illuminated the castle from below, no doubt to show off the grand architecture. The surrounding community was lit up, too, making the island seem like the only spot of light in the middle of a vast sea of darkness.

Claire looked down at Birkin's ID card, watching the light gleam on the smooth plastic. An imbedded strip of metal and a few short words designated it for _Level 7_ clearance. With it she could go anywhere and do anything on the island, but one glance out the window made Claire realize how futile such an idea was. It would be unsuccessful at best, suicidal at worst, and Claire was just too worn-out to try. Turning, she watched her sneakers slap on the flagstones as she made her way back to Wesker's room, an obedient little slave. Stopping at the door, she had to try the card twice before it worked. As soon as she'd stepped into the room, however, she knew Wesker was already there.

Lifting her eyes, she saw him seated at his desk, his features illuminated by the bluish light of his computer monitor. The brightness was turned down low, however, and was tinged with red around the edges. Claire felt her heart catch as Wesker turned his gaze towards her, his eyes glowing through the lenses of his sunglasses. "Did you have a good time, dear heart?"

Claire swallowed and kept her hand on the doorknob, ready to bolt back into the safety of the corridor. "Dinner was good," she fumbled, forcing herself to answer.

The corner of Wesker's mouth lifted into a slow, unnerving smirk. "Indeed. And how does it feel to have the evidence you've amounted against me slowly get stripped away?"

Claire's heart was beating so hard she was sure Wesker could hear it. She knew he hadn't been watching her discussion with Birkin, but the fact that he'd guessed it made her feel sick and weak on the inside. "You set me up," she croaked, suddenly understanding. "You knew Sherry would be in the greenhouse today."

Wesker's eyes gleamed. "Perhaps," he rumbled, "but don't deny that you're grateful in either case."

Claire opened her mouth to protest and found that she couldn't. She could only stare at the blond tyrant, fear and doubt churning in her gut. Wesker was right, damn him, and there was nothing she could do or say to the contrary. Gathering up what remained of her tattered courage, Claire pushed the door shut and forced her legs to carry her across the room, where she set Birkin's ID on the desk. "He… he wants it back," she managed.

"Of course. I'll see that it's returned," Wesker answered, mocking her.

Consumed by the growing urge to get away from Wesker, Claire hastily moved towards the bathroom, picking up a fresh set of clothes up on the way. She locked the door behind her and stood in the empty bathroom fighting the urge to cry. She wanted to forget everything Birkin had said and hinted at, but she couldn't and that was the absolute crux of her situation. As she turned on the shower and got undressed, she had a sudden image of Wesker watching her on some hidden camera, but she had to disregard the idea as being paranoid.

She walked into Wesker's large shower and started unwinding the bandages around her arm. Through the rising steam, she studied the ugly blemish on her skin, probing the swollen veins with a finger. It felt sore, but not unduly painful, and with that realization came the insight that she was only alive because of Wesker's charity. Claire bit her lip and twisted her hair around one hand, gripping it over her shoulder. The Albert Wesker she thought she knew would have turned Sherry into a test-subject, left Birkin to perish in Raccoon City, and laughed in Chris' face as his sister died slowly in her bedroom.

Claire was acutely aware that while Wesker hadn't exactly been kind, he hadn't mistreated her. Even when he'd grabbed her throat, he'd stopped just shy of doing any actual harm. And as she stood there, the hot water beating down on her back, Claire couldn't help but feel as though Birkin had been right. Some things about Wesker definitely didn't fit with her vision of a murdering tyrant. 

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Okay, so I've resurrected Birkin for the purposes of this story. And yes, I know he mutated into a blob of fangs and jelly totally unrecognizable as a human being, but let's pretend that his transformation didn't advance past the first stage, with the big grotesque arm and all that. Then Wesker sent the troops to collect him just before the city turned into a nuclear blast crater. Unlikely? Maybe. But this is AU. If you want to find out what really happened, go play the game. ;)**

**Cookies are hereby awarded to **_**anonymous coward**_** for reviewing the last chapter. He/she noticed all the subtleties and foreshadowing, and perfectly summarized ****exactly**** what I'm trying to do with Wesker. Thanks a million for the amazing feedback! I truly appreciate you taking the time to be so in-depth about my story! ^_^**


	7. Chapter 7: Shadow of the Past

Chapter 7: Shadow of the Past

After coming out of the shower, Claire wordlessly lay down on the couch and tried to get some rest, listening to the incessant clicking of Wesker typing at his computer. Sleep, however, didn't come easily. She tossed for a long time, filled questions she'd almost certainly rather not have answered, and her dreams were strange and fitful. When morning finally came, cold and grey, with the barest tint of yellow, Claire groggily opened her eyes to find Wesker still at his computer. She glanced at the clock and groaned inwardly at the hour. She liked to get up early as a rule, but not this early.

She shut her eyes and tired to get back to sleep, but the welcoming oblivion refused to come. And when Claire started to get a small headache, she realized there was no sense in lying here any longer. She sat up on the couch, grinding the knuckles of one hand into her eye. Wesker's fingers never paused on the keyboard. "Can't sleep, dear-heart?"

"Not really," said Claire sourly, moving to sit in the corner of the couch. "Why are you still here?"

"Well, it would look strange if people saw me working the labs at all hours, now wouldn't it? Most of the facility isn't even awake yet. I do have to keep up some semblance of normality."

"Huh." Claire grunted indecipherably. She usually found it quite easy to antagonize Wesker, but doing anything more than yawning seemed like a crass waste of energy right now. After spending a few minutes huddled under her blanket, her thoughts began to stray to the kitchen, wondering if Wesker would mind if she put a pot of coffee on. Eventually she decided that the promise of caffeine far outweighed any potential pitfalls.

Mourning the absence of her slippers, Claire padded into the kitchen and spent the next few minutes hunting for the coffee, snorting when she discovered that it was plain old Maxwell House. And here she'd been expecting some kind of exotic crap from Sumatra. Claire measured out the proper amount and set the coffee pot to perk, sitting at the table to wait. Her hair was still slightly damp from the shower, so she combed it out with her fingers. Weariness eventually won out again, however, and she folded her arms on the table, resting her forehead atop them. Wesker didn't look up from his computer and Claire found herself wondering what exactly he was doing over there. Most likely he was doing some kind of lab work, but the possibility of porn was not above suspicion.

And then Claire knew she was still half asleep, because she sniggered deliriously. This was so utterly messed up it really was laughable. "So, what's on your agenda today?" she asked Wesker, since she'd never gotten the chance to needle him this early before. "Getting ready whip up a new batch of Tyrants?"

Wesker smiled at her flippancy. "Perhaps. What about _you_, dear-heart?"

"Me? Oh, I guess I'll just pace around in here all day. I really do enjoy it," she retorted cynically.

"Would you like to go back to the greenhouse? If you do, you're going to have to ask me nicely."

Claire gaped at him, burning with indignation. Just who the hell did Wesker think he was, anyway? She wanted nothing more than to tell him to stick where the sun didn't shine and turn it sideways while he was at it, but the angry words tangled up in her throat. She hadn't even begun to explore the massive greenhouse, not to mention another opportunity to experience warm, glorious sunshine. Claire thought about spending her day shut up in Wesker's room again and inwardly cringed, certain that she'd die of boredom long before nightfall. Being a chronic workaholic, Wesker didn't watch TV and it wasn't like she was going to switch on his computer. Still, Claire's insides shriveled at the thought of actually having to ask Wesker for something.

Gritting her teeth, Claire stalked over the coffee pot and poured herself a cup. The sun was coming up in earnest now, sending beams of golden light knifing across the floor. Twenty minutes later, Wesker got up from his desk and went to the door, taking his pristine lab coat off a nearby hook. Claire furiously bit down the urge to call after him and so he left without a word, leaving her alone in her comfy little prison. Groaning aloud, Claire swallowed the rest of her coffee and tried not the hurl the mug against the wall, she was that frustrated.

The next day, however, she broke down and stiffly gave Wesker what he wanted. Ask me nicely, indeed. The blond tyrant smirked quietly to himself and nodded, stopping to wait for her by the door. Claire hastily got dressed, stomping along behind him as he led her down to greenhouse. Once there, she furiously plunged into the rows of greenery, searching for a viable escape route (because she was going to escape eventually, thank you very much). She came up empty-handed of course, and that left her with only one option, namely grabbing a chair and waiting by the door for Wesker to return, then bringing the whole thing down on his egotistical head.

Needless to say, however, she had a feeling it wouldn't be a very smart move. He'd already warned her against such endeavors and Claire wasn't in any hurry to experience another taste of just how angry Wesker could get. She couldn't help but feel a little afraid of him, just as she couldn't but question his motives, since the past few days had thrown an unwelcome shadow of doubt over Claire's perception of him. She looked everywhere for Sherry, hoping for the chance to apologize, but the girl was nowhere to be found and Claire felt a fresh spasm of guilt, certain that she'd damaged their tentative friendship beyond repair.

Feeling dismal, she wandered to the far end of the compound and discovered that it was home to a large collection of rare and endangered plants. These were afforded special care and a few even had their own miniature habitats equipped with controlled irrigation and temperature. It was here that Claire came upon a short, thick-waisted woman with fuzzy white hair and Coke-bottle glasses. She looked up as Claire approached, her expression curious.

"Oh, hello there," she said, her voice colored by a recognizable Irish lilt. Claire offered the woman a polite smile and returned the greeting, not wanting to appear rude or suspicious.

"I've seen you here before," the woman commented, peering at Claire. "What's the matter, lass? Is there something I could help you find?"

"No, thank you. I'm just wandering, looking for something to do," said Claire.

"You work here?"

_Crap. _"No," said Claire hastily, overwhelmed by a sudden flash of panic. She knew it was only a matter of time before people started asking questions, but she had no idea how to answer them. How much had Wesker told these people, if anything? A slip-up here could be unpleasant. "I, uh… I've been pretty sick, so I came down here for some air," Claire told the woman, deciding that a half-truth would be better than an outright lie.

"I know exactly how you feel. Silly as it sounds, I find the place a wee bit enchanting, especially in the morning," The woman switched her clipboard from her right hand to her left. "I'm Dr. Connors, but you can call me Elise."

Claire politely shook hands. "I'm Claire," she said.

"Pleased to meet you. You said you wanted something to do?"

"I, uh… sure." Claire didn't know what else to say.

"Well, how would you like to help me pollinate these Moth orchids?" Dr. Connors moved to pick up a hefty white pot containing a large orchid with oddly shaped, dark purple blooms. "We're trying to breed a small population before the poor things go extinct."

Claire's hesitated. Accepting would open her up to more unwanted questions, but refusing would leave her with nothing to do. "Look, I really appreciate the offer, but I don't know the first thing about plants," she admitted at length. "I couldn't take care of one if my life depended on it."

Dr. Connors laughed. "It's really simple, lass. I can show you if you want." She offered Claire a motherly sort of smile. "But if you dannae want to, that's okay."

"Can I just watch, though?" Claire asked sheepishly.

"Oh, course. Please, hand me that jar and paintbrush, that's a good lass."

Claire turned, spotting the requesting items on a nearby table. She handed them to Dr. Connors and seated herself on the edge of the desk, watching as the woman gently inserted the paintbrush into the center of one of the flowers and rotated it between the tips of her fingers. "The pollen's usually rather deep, but you have to careful. Try to be a bonnie wee bee," said Dr. Connors, tapping the brush on the rim of the jar and releasing a delicate shower of yellow dust.

Claire smiled and watched curiously as Dr. Connors moved the paintbrush to another orchid plant, using it to dust the flower's delicate interior with pollen. Claire had never considered herself a science geek, but she certainly didn't object to the Discovery channel and _National Geographic_. When Dr. Connors had finished all the purple orchids, she moved to a tray of speckled orange ones and changed paintbrushes, beginning the same process all over again. This time, however, Claire noticed that the doctor was using pollen from two flowers instead of one.

"Why change? I thought different species, you know… wouldn't be compatible," she said.

"In most cases 'tis true, but the wee _Sorcerer_'s _Glory_ is dying out. Just isn't tough enough to survive the global upswing in temperature. But this one_," _Dr. Connors pointed to a large red orchid with similar markings, "is a hardy little bugger and we're hoping that by cross-pollinating the two we can save the _Sorcerer_ from complete extinction."

Claire thought about this for a minute. "But it won't be the same anymore," she pointed out.

"Aye, but the new variety – providing that the pollination takes – will quite closely related to the _Sorcerer_, so if you've haven't got another option it's a better fate then letting them die out completely."

Claire supposed this was true, in a warped sort of way. She nodded and offered to move a few pots for Dr. Connors. As the day wore on, she grew more comfortable around the old woman and was soon helping her repot a collection of ferns from South America. By the time Wesker came to fetch her later that evening, Claire was unsuccessfully trying to wipe the dirt and fertilizer off her heavy clothing, which felt uncomfortably sticky since she'd been forced to sweat it out in the hot greenhouse. She grit her teeth when Wesker chuckled.

"If you'd like more suitable clothing, dear heart, you're going to have to provide me with your sizes," he pointed out, letting her into his room and locking the door behind her, his footsteps moving back down the hall. He clearly wasn't finished with whatever depraved experiment he was conducting in the lower levels. Claire immediately went into the bathroom to pick the dirt out from beneath her fingernails and take a shower. Later, she made herself go over to Wesker's desk and write out her sizes on a piece of paper, having little choice other than to take him up on his offer. Thankfully, it seemed harmless enough… for Wesker, anyway.

Finishing the brief three-sentence list, Claire paused a minute, then scribbled _Thank You_ in the margins of the note before sticking it to Wesker's keyboard. Then she crawled onto the couch and slept better then she'd had in a while. Exactly two days later, Claire awoke to find a large shopping bag left at the foot of the couch, and with a pang she couldn't help but think about her brother leaving Easter baskets on the table in the dead of night and vehemently denying he had anything to do with it.

She pushed the depressing thought aside and dug around in the bag. It contained several pairs of jeans (which, for some obscure reason, were heavily decorated with swirls and red sequined butterflies) a few blouses and some floaty designer shirts that revealed a little two much cleavage for her taste. She wondered if Wesker had deliberately picked the shirts for that reason.

Setting everything aside, Claire came across something white folded at the bottom of the bag. Grasping it, she shook it out to reveal a freshly starched lab coat, which she stared at for several minutes before actually realizing that it was for her. Unbelievable. After a quick shower, Claire dressed in her new clothes and, after some thought, decided to put the lab coat on, too.

"Great. Now I really look like I belong around here," she reflected in disgust, peering at herself in the bathroom mirror. She looked older, smarter, like a scientist, and the concept was an entirely unwelcome one. Feeling self-conscious and not at all pleased, she smoothed the front of the coat and felt something hard in the breast pocket. Fishing it out, she was shocked to find an ID card similar to Wesker's, except that it was marked with her photo and personal information. A folded piece of paper was clipped to the card.

It simply read _You're Welcome_, a mocking echo to Claire's earlier sentiment.

"That cunning, diabolical bastard," Claire muttered, holding the card as if expecting it to sprout teeth. It was tagged for _Level 2_ clearance, making it little more than a glorified Visitor's pass, but despite the new freedom she'd been given, Claire couldn't help but to expect a trap. It seemed to trusting of Wesker, too convenient. She glanced at the door, turning the card around in her fingers. After a minute she went over and swiped the card through the reader, deciding that it probably wasn't going to work anyway. A moment later, however, the door unlocked with a click.

Claire's jaw unhinged. "You've got to be kidding me."

Cautiously, Claire opened the door and peered out, half-expecting Wesker to jump out at her, but the hallway was deserted. It was completely open to her, and Claire abruptly realized that she was free to make her way down to the greenhouse without being escorted, since she had no doubt that was Wesker's intention. She might seriously have considered yelling _Hallelujah_ and sprinting for freedom, except she got the feeling that she was most definitely NOT free, but merely had been given a longer leash. The reason for this was beyond her, however. Maybe Wesker was just tired of playing chaperone.

Claire glanced at the card again, a wave of unease passing through her gut. After expecting to be tortured with hypodermic needles and leather whips, she had no idea what to think of how Wesker treated her. He mocked her, he threatened her, he definitely frightened her to some extent, but overall he'd been nothing but a gentleman. Claire bit her lip, trying to remember that he was just toying with her, like a cat batting around a mouse.

Nevertheless, however, she decided it was a game she could risk playing, at least for now. She slipped the ID card into her back pocket, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the hallway. Taking her cue from Sherry and making sure the door was shut tightly behind her, Claire set off through the facility. She was shocked by how differently people reacted to her. Yesterday they'd stared at her as she'd passed, scrutinizing her highly unorthodox tracksuit. Today they gave her clipped, impersonal smiles and a few even stepped out of her way. Claire uneasily smoothed her lab coat again.

She didn't go to the greenhouse right away, deciding to take a chance and test her new boundaries. She came across numerous small offices and research labs, most of them viewable through panes of heavy-duty glass. Peering inside, Claire saw people bent over microscopes and Petri dishes, but what they were working on was a mystery to her. She moved on after a few minutes, not wanting to attract attention. Unsurprisingly, Claire soon reached the limit of her so-called freedom when she tried to access an elevator leading to the ground floor, so she made her way back to the greenhouse and let herself in, feeling strangely exuberant.

Working her way across the conservatory, she spotted Dr. Connors bent double over a bag of potting soil. The chubby woman turned to look at her as she came over, wiping a curl of white hair out of her eyes and leaving a dark smear. "Well, good morning, lass. You look like you're feeling better."

Claire smiled nervously, dodging the implied question. She chatted with the doctor for a while and the pair soon became involved in pruning one of the rosebushes. As she worked, however, Claire couldn't help but look further down the aisle, gazing sadly at that one wilted rose. It had lost nearly all its blooms and its leaves were speckled with black spots. Claire gestured at the miserable flower with her pruning sheers. "Why isn't anyone taking care of that one?" she asked.

Dr. Connors heaved a sigh. "It _is_ being taken care of, lass, and more's the pity. I've been trying to keep that particular sort alive for years, but nothing I do seems to work. It just won't grow outside that one little spot in the mountains. In all my years, I've only ever had one other flower act so fussy, and it was some exotic thing that the chairman tried to bring up from Africa."

Claire glanced at the sick rose, unable to explain why she felt so bad for it. "What's with the black spots?"

"Tis' a disease. Most roses are strong enough to resist it, but not this one. Poor wee thing."

At that moment, Claire was seized by a sudden idea. "Why not do the same thing you did with the orchids?" she asked. "You said that sometimes helps with diseases."

Dr. Connors smiled ruefully at her. "Aye, it's a lovely thought," she said, "but there's no other rose that'll do. They have to be related to each other in some way, the closer the better, and we've already tried the only one that comes close to being a match."

Claire's expression fell. "So… what, then? You're just going to throw them out?"

"Eventually. Looks like they have another week or so left in them, and I'm a silly, sentimental old woman. Maybe I'll try another fertilizer, or increase their water." Dr. Connors shrugged, looking as though she didn't have much faith in either solution. She and Claire resumed their work. After the pruning was finished they installed a trellis for two climbing roses since they'd all but outgrown the old one. Around 11 o'clock, however, Dr. Connors finally put her tools aside.

"I must be going, lass. Tis' lunchtime, and I have some plans tonight on the mainland. It's my hubby's birthday this weekend and I've been wanting to get him something nice," she said cheerfully.

Claire grinned, unable to stop herself from picturing Dr. Connors' husband as old man with traces of red hair and a tweed cap. "Sounds like fun," she replied. "Any ideas?"

"A few. He's so very fond of soccer. I was thinking of a pair of tickets, or something of that ilk."

"Well, I hope you find something good. See you later," Claire's smiled widened slightly. "And thanks."

"Oh? Whatever for?"

"For making my time down here fun. I appreciate it."

Dr. Connors laughed, her eyes crinkling into little half-moons. "Oh, think nothing of it! I was young once, too, you know. You're a good lass, Claire."

Claire flushed and smiled. Whistling casually, Dr. Connors left the greenhouse, pausing by the door to knock the dirt off her shoes. Claire finished winding the roses around their new trellis, gave them some water, and then looked around for something else to do. Dr. Connors had mentioned that a nearby tray of begonias needed repotted. That shouldn't be too hard. Claire started over, looking around for a trowel and some fresh potting soil, but her eyes fell on the dying rose again. Sherry had called it _Black Magic_. Who knew, maybe some kind of ritual needed to be done.

Claire began to turn, but something suddenly occurred to her. Maybe using black magic wasn't as crazy as it sounded. Dr. Connors said that she'd already tried to cross-pollinate it with another rose, but it hadn't worked. _What if… what if I did the same thing with something else? Something other than a rose…_

The idea was half-baked and stupid, and Claire felt a flush climb up her face for even thinking she could do better than a team of experienced botanists. Even so, however, the crazy notion appealed to her somehow. It was something to do, and what harm could come from trying? It wasn't like she was going to get in trouble for killing the roses since they were already on their way to the compost heap. After a moment's indecision, Claire went over to a nearby workstation and pulled out her ID card. She'd long since discovered that all of Umbrella's computers needed an employee ID number in order to open a browsing session. More safeguards and power plays a' la Wesker. Glancing at her ID, Claire typed in that vital seven-digit number and hit _ENTER_.

Nothing happened.

Just when Claire was starting to think she should have known better than to except anything, the omnipotent Umbrella logo flashed up with the words: _Identity Confirmed. Welcome to Umbrella._ Claire grinned in triumph. The cursor blinked on and off, expectant, and she started off by looking for exactly what kind of disease was affecting the dying rose. After she'd worked that out, she then told the computer to search for every kind of plant that was resistant to said disease, if any. The monitor exploded in a riot of motion as a dozen windows popped up on the screen. Thankfully, some lonely nerd had categorized the flowers into hierarchal order based on resistance level, so Claire had no trouble singling out the top five. The menu also displayed a picture of each flower, including their tray number and location in the greenhouse.

Picking up a handful of paintbrushes and little glass jars, Claire set off in search of three roses, one Chinese violet, and one Brazilian orchid. One by one, and with some uncertainty on where exactly the flowers kept their pollen, she carefully harvested the precious yellow dust. Feeling both embarrassed and strangely excited, she took everything back to the sick rose and began applying the pollen to its wilted flowers. Passersby probably thought she knew what she was doing, but Claire had to laugh at them, knowing that she was just mimicking what she'd seen Dr. Connors do. Despite the lab coat, a goldfish had a better chance of acting scientific.

Either way, however, Claire managed to finish four separate rose bushes, using a different type of pollen for each one. On the fifth and final one, she was reaching deep inside the bush, clumsily trying to get inside its last flower, when one of its thick, woody thorns pierced the mound of her palm hard enough to draw a tiny drop of blood. Hissing in surprise, Claire hastily withdrew her hand, scratching two more shallow cuts along the inside of her wrist.

"Bitch," Claire exclaimed and placed the injury to her mouth, more out of habit than anything else, since it wasn't bleeding all that bad. It did, however, sting unusually hard. Almost like fire. She was sucking the tiny scratch when movement behind the trays caused her to turn. Claire felt a thrill of surprise to see Sherry slowly making her way up the aisle, her head hung low. Today she was dressed in a blue jumper over a crisp white blouse, a matching headband tucked in her hair. "Hi, Claire," she whispered, not quite meeting the older woman's gaze.

"Hi," said Claire, setting her pollen brush aside and trying not to squirm at the sudden, guilty tension. She had no idea why Sherry was down here, or if the girl wanted to talk, but she thought it best to get things off her shoulders regardless. "Look, Sherry, I… I'm sorry, okay?" she said. "Whatever I said, can we just forget about it?"

Sherry shook her head. "Don't say that. I'm the one who acted like the idiot. I didn't have to be like that, so I'm the one who should be sorry. That's why I came down here, to tell you that," she said, searching Claire's face for some kind of acceptance, all while making sure her words were said as politely and as sincerely as possible. "I'm sorry."

Claire let out a sigh and moved to hug Sherry, relieved that nothing had been ruined between them. After a moment, Sherry offered her a watery smile, reaching out to pluck Claire's white coat. "Looks good on you," she remarked shyly.

"Whatever. It's better than getting my clothes dirty," said Claire, wishing people would stop commenting on the garment. For some reason it felt like an insignia, a way of saying "I belong here". Or rather, "I belong to Umbrella." Sherry glanced at the paintbrushes and little jars Claire had scattered about.

"What are you doing, anyway?"

"Pretending I'm a mad scientist," said Claire, a teasing note in her voice, but she was glad that Sherry didn't ask her to elaborate. The girl shifted her feet. "…Are you done?" she asked quietly. "I'll go if you're still busy."

"No, stay. I'm finished. Look what happened!" Claire showed Sherry the scratches on her hand.

"You want some ointment? There's a med-kit by the door."

"Naw. They're not that bad."

"You sure? Maybe you should wear gloves next time," said Sherry. "So, uh… would you like to go get some lunch? I know I kind of ruined dinner last time and I want to make it up to you."

Claire smiled. "Why not? You're going to have to lead the way, though. I've never been to the cafeteria."

Sherry's face broke into a wide grin; clearly she'd been expecting Claire to refuse. "Forget the cafeteria," she said, taking Claire's hand. "I want to show you this nice little coffee shop down on the island. They make the best tuna sandwiches!"

They started towards the door, but then Sherry paused, a dismayed expression crossing her face. "Oh, but visitors aren't allowed on the island without a pass," she said. "Did Uncle Albert give you one? Please say he did!"

Claire pulled out her ID card. "This do?"

"Yep. Claire, I, uh… I don't want to be bossy or anything, but if you've got one you really need to wear it where people can see." Sherry tapped the similar ID she had clipped to her belt. "Mr. Krauser caught me without mine once, and he's not somebody you want to cross."

"And I've been wandering around all morning with it stuffed in my pocket," Claire muttered, cringing. She awkwardly clipped the ID to the front pocket of her coat. "How's that?"

"Great. Come on."

They left the greenhouse, going down the passageway and turning left at a narrow set of flagstone steps curving down to the lower levels. Claire had noticed them before, but hadn't bothered to go exploring, as she didn't think her poor leg muscles could handle the unusually steep descent. Thankfully, however, Sherry didn't seem to be in a hurry and Claire found that placing one hand on the wall helped support some of her weight. She'd been getting stronger every day, but she was in no hurry to push it.

Sherry led her through the facility, occasionally smiling at people she knew, until they came to a large set of oak doors. They were propped open, flooding the hall with sunlight. Outside was a cobbled lane bordered on both sides by rows of brightly colored flowers and tall, shapely poplars that shivered and danced in the breeze, showing the silvery undersides of their leaves. As they walked, Claire found that the island strongly reminded her of pictures of Venice Italy, or some other old world city. The roads and the houses that lined it had been softened by years of wind and sun. Small groups of people were walking the road, chatting pleasantly with one another, and Claire even spotted one woman on a bicycle. She wondered if the island was akin to the Vatican, a tiny nation unto itself, governed by it's own laws and jurisdiction. Knowing Wesker, it wouldn't surprise her.

"Isn't it wonderful, Claire?" Sherry asked, continuing to lead her down the island's concentric rings, and Claire had to admit that yes, _Mont St. Michel_ was an incredible place. She was just starting to get out of breath when Sherry pulled her onto the patio of a small café, the name of which was French and beyond pronunciation. She Claire how she liked her coffee and what she wanted to eat, to which Claire replied that she'd have whatever the younger girl picked.

Sherry went into the café, leaving Claire to find a seat at one of the small wrought iron tables. For a minute, everything felt right with the world. No Wesker, no infection. Just sunshine. Sighing, Claire leaned back in her chair, her gaze drawn up the mound of the island to the main facility perched at the top. From this angle she could see how impressive it really was, a massive citadel surmounted by a cathedral and its glittering spire. At the very top, gleaming silver in the hot white sunlight, Claire thought she could make out something that looked very much like an angel.

Looking up at the citadel, Claire knew she should have felt disgusted by Wesker's sheer arrogance, but at the same time she couldn't help but feel as though the facility and its angel were positioned in such a way as to look as though it was watching over the island, simultaneously presenting itself as ruler, conqueror, and protector. Our Business is Life Itself.

The scrape of a chair brought Claire out of her reverie. Blinking, she brought her eyes back down to see that Sherry had taken a seat opposite her. The smell of coffee wafted around Claire's nose as the younger girl pushed a porcelain mug in her direction. Looking at the tottering mound of whipping cream and chocolate shavings perched atop what was undoubtedly a very fine cappuccino, Claire all but drooled on the table. She picked up the cup and took a tentative sip. Mmm. Heavenly.

"Oh, that's good," she sighed, grinning.

Sherry grinned back and took a sip of her own coffee. They chatted for a while, swapping bits of trivia from movies they liked and which guys were the hottest, and laughing when their opinions on this matter happened to clash. By the time the waitress appeared with their sandwiches, Claire had gotten into a mock-serious argument on the matter of Prince Nuada. Claire thought he was vaguely creepy and the villain besides. Sherry strongly disagreed around a mouthful of her tuna sandwich, which Claire had discovered was very sweet and yummy, and served on what looked like toasted sourdough. She was glad Sherry had ordered them both the same thing. It felt like she and the young girl had known each other for a very long time, and it made Claire happy just to be able to sit here and be normal.

Eventually, talk of movies waned and she asked Sherry about the island. The young girl was more than happy to launch into an extended and well-informed history lesson, explaining that the island had once been home to a collection of Benedictine monks. "It was built to protect the coast of Normandy from barbarian invades," said Sherry knowingly.

Claire had a small _ah hah_ moment, although to be honest she'd already guessed as much. Castles like this weren't built off the coast of Madagascar. She listened attentively as Sherry continued, right down to the part of how Wesker had purchased the island from the French government. Claire secretly had to marvel at that kind of money, since the amount had almost certainly bordered on obscene, and she wasn't sure whether to feel appalled or impressed. The breeze picked up, sharp with the scent of the ocean, and tinkled the abundance of wind chimes hanging from the awning of the café. Flashes of light danced on Claire's arms. Sherry fell silent, looking at her strangely, until at last she blurted, "Why do you hate Uncle Albert so much?"

Sickness rose within Claire. "Sherry, please. I thought we agree not to talk about this anymore," she moaned.

"We did, but… please, just tell me. I want to know, and I promise that no matter what you say I won't get mad or stomp off, or anything!"

"Sherry…"

"Please?" Sherry's eyes were wide, literally begging her.

Her good mood gone, Claire leaned back in her chair to rub her eyes, wishing she could just evaporate. What was wrong with Sherry? Seriously, she couldn't imagine why the girl would be so vehement about this. If she'd had an uncle she adored this much, she wouldn't have wanted to hear anything bad about him, especially not the specifics. The very mention of Wesker ticked Claire off and brought up a whole host of emotions she'd rather do away with. For a brief minute she honestly considered just laying everything on Sherry as thick as she could, hoping maybe that would close the topic once and for all, but then she remembered her promise to Birkin. Be gentle.

Claire sighed and tried to find the right words. "Wesker was the captain of a search and rescue unit," she began stiffly, but very plainly, working to summarize the horrid details in just a few short sentences. "He killed a lot of people for Umbrella and that's about as short and sweet as I can make it. And to make matters worse, those people trusted him, thought he was there to watch their backs. My brother was one of those people."

Sherry's eyes went wide and Claire felt sure that the girl had gone a shade paler. A shocked silence fell between them, broken only by the tinkling wind chimes. Claire swallowed, certain that she'd gone too far as Sherry's eyes suddenly turned away from her to stare across the road. To the casual observer, the girl looked like she was intent on counting every leaf on the nearby tree, but Claire saw the deep furrow between Sherry's eyebrows, the glazed look that signified the frantic turning of cogs. After what seemed like forever, Sherry broke the tense silence.

"Is your brother still alive?"

"Yeah, but what the heck does that matter?"

"Because it does," said Sherry. "If he's still alive then why—"

"Sherry, don't go there," Claire warned, trying not to grind her teeth. Sherry was infuriating, like trying to convince an indoctrinated zealot that her region was seriously screwed up. "What Wesker did wrecked my brother and his partner for a long time. Period."

Sherry frowned, clearly thinking hard. Claire watched her for any signs of anger and saw none. After a long moment, however, something dawned on Sherry's face. "The search and rescue unit… it was S.T.A.R.S, wasn't it?" she asked nervously.

Claire blinked, taken aback. "How do you know that?" she demanded.

"I lived in Raccoon City, too, remember? Uncle Albert used to talk about them a lot." Sherry shrugged noncommittally. "Besides," she added, "he carries a gun with the S.T.A.R.S emblem on it."

Claire said nothing, choosing not to state the obvious. Sherry was quiet, too, but her silence was deeper and tinged with something akin to dread. "Claire, if I tell you something… something bad… will you promise to listen?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes searched Claire's face, boring into her.

Claire suddenly felt cold. "Of course," she said earnestly. "Anything."

"I always knew something terrible happened to S.T.A.R.S, but, Claire… I don't think Uncle Albert did it."

"Oh, come on!" Claire snapped. "Seriously, I know you mean well, but don't go making stuff up just to—"

"I am not making things up!" Sherry exclaimed hotly. "You said you would listen!"

Claire was half-tempted to reach out and shake Sherry until her nose bled. She reluctantly kept her peace, however, and waited. A promise was a promise, and the sooner this was over with the better. Sherry glared at her suspiciously, eyes glinting as though she was going refuse to tell Claire anything just out of spite, but her misguided sense of duty won out. "Anyway… it was just before Raccoon City," she said. "It was Saturday morning, so we were all sitting together eating breakfast, just mom, dad and me. We hardly ever got to do that, so it was special.

Sherry smiled, a sad, faraway expression to be sure. "I was telling mom about the science project I had to do and she was helping me out, using her fancy pen to write stuff on a napkin. Somebody knocked on the door, so daddy got up and went to get it." Sherry swallowed, her wistful look vanishing. "You could see the front door from our kitchen," she explained uneasily, "so when daddy opened the door, I could see Uncle Albert standing there covered in so much blood I thought for sure he was dead."

_The Tyrant, _Claire thought, letting the timeline click together in her head. She nodded for Sherry to continue, a morbid sort of interest kindling inside her.

"He was hurt bad," Sherry whispered. "Daddy had to catch him or he would've hit the floor, I'm sure of it. Mom jumped up and ran to help, yelling at me to go to my room. They were so freaked out, I went up the stairs as fast as could, but I didn't stay there. I should have, but I didn't. I was so worried about Uncle Albert! So I… I snuck back down and hid in the laundry room," Sherry admitted this guiltily, as if she was still afraid of getting in trouble for it.

"There was always this crack in the wall where the boards didn't quite come together, and I always made sure the wallpaper had a hole in it so I could see the living room. Mom and Dad had a little office there, and I used to pretend I was spying on them, like James Bond, you know? Daddy made Uncle Albert lie down on the couch and told mom to get the first aid kit from the bathroom. Oh, Claire, there was so much blood!" Sherry cried, wringing her hands. "Uncle Albert was screaming so bad all I wanted him to do was stop!"

Claire winced, not for Wesker, but for Sherry. She reached across the table to touch the girl's shoulder. "Hey, it's okay. I don't really want to know. Seriously, I don't. So you don't have to tell me," she insisted, but Sherry fervently shook her head. "No," she retorted, brushing Claire's hand away. "I want you to know, okay?"

Claire reluctantly sat back in her chair.

"After a while daddy sat down beside the couch and asked Uncle Albert what happened," said Sherry. "I remember him hiding his face in his hands, yelling at daddy to leave him alone. I didn't want to listen anymore, but they'd seen me if I'd moved. Daddy kept asking, trying to get Uncle Albert to tell him, but all he kept saying was: _Alex did it_."

Sherry hugged herself, shivering despite the warm sunlight. "It was horrible," she whispered. "When daddy heard about Alex, he ran into his office and tried to get Uncle Albert to take some pills, but he knocked them on the ground. Claire, he… he started crying! He said that S.T.A.R.S. was gone because he wasn't strong enough to stop Alex. The next day, some men came to the door and told daddy that he had to go to the Hive under Raccoon City because Arklay had been blown up."

Tears shone in Sherry's eyes as she leaned across the table, her hands balled into shaking fists. "Don't you get it, Claire?" she demanded, almost shouting at her. "Something bad happened up there! I know Uncle Albert's not a nice person, but he's always been there when daddy and me needed him, so don't you dare say that he betrayed anybody!"

Claire grasped Sherry's hands, feeling sick and nauseous herself. "Hey, come on. I'm sorry. Don't cry," she begged.

"No, you're not," Sherry gulped. "Whoever Alex is, Uncle Albert tried to fight him! Why can't you see that? He used to talk about S.T.A.R.S. when he would come over for dinner. Said they drove him crazy, but he was proud of them, Claire! He'd never do anything bad! Why can't you hate Alex instead?"

Claire felt as though the entire world had done a 180 wobble on its axis. Her first logical reaction told her not to buy it, that Sherry was lying through her teeth and squeezing out big crocodile tears just like she'd been taught to do. But as Sherry continued to bite her lip, trying to keep it from wobbling, Claire couldn't help but feel a deep, sour pang inside her chest. Even the horrors of Raccoon City hadn't pushed Sherry over this particular brink.

"I know you think I'm lying," Sherry croaked. "But I'm not, I swear. You think I don't know about what daddy and Uncle Albert do down in the lower levels? Well, I do, so telling me isn't going to scare me. They do that stuff for a good reason and I know it isn't particularly nice or safe, considering what happened with Raccoon City, but that was an accident. Nobody meant for it to happen, I understand that now, so that's why I don't let it bother me anymore. Please, can't you just give Uncle Albert one tiny chance? He's really not a bad person."

The pang in Claire's chest deepened, growing tighter and more painful as Wesker's angry words came back to haunt her. _If I was so intent on eliminating the members of Alpha team, why did I go out of my way to aid them in escaping the Mansion? But Chris never told you that, did he? I doubt he even remembers because my actions were so insignificant, but at the time they were all I had the power to achieve._

Claire felt as though a cold ball of lead had sunk into her stomach. She desperately wanted to continue believing that Wesker was still holding up some grand act, but the evidence was stacking up at an alarming rate. Despite all warnings to the contrary, she didn't feel as though Sherry was lying, and it wasn't as if Wesker and Birkin had orchestrated the entire act just to fool a twelve-year-old girl hiding behind the washing machine. _What if he really didn't have anything to do with Arklay? It would explain why he got so pissed off at me when I called him a traitor. Oh, dear God have mercy._

The implications of this were staggering. Sherry pulled back, squarely meeting Claire's gaze. "One chance, Claire? Please? For me?" she pleaded.

Claire's insides twisted and went numb, and she found that she had nothing at all to say.

Later that evening, she found that she couldn't meet Wesker's gaze, her guts shriveling with the thought that she'd falsely accused this man of a terrible crime, but there was no denying that Chris and Jill had seen him at the Mansion, watched him murder their comrades without blinking an eye. There was no way they could have mistaken him and Claire's brain was spinning itself into a frenzy trying to find a logical way to explain these glaring holes. What had really gone on up there?

Lying on the couch, Claire huddled under her blanket as if to protect herself from the whirlwind of confusion. She slept fitfully, her dreams punctuated by horrible replays of Sherry's tale and Wesker's own angry admission that something had gone wrong up at Arklay. Then, in the wee hours of the morning, Claire was awakened by a stealthy noise. Groggily peeling her eyes open, she squinted against the light. The door to the bathroom was slightly ajar. Wesker was standing in front of the mirror rolling up his sleeve, his expression totally blank and unreadable. He shifted enough for Claire to see the slim black attaché case perched on the rim of the sink. Reaching inside, Wesker picked out a long syringe and uncapped it, flicking the reservoir with his finger. Claire held her breath as he thrust the needle into his arm and depressed the plunger, his features tightening with discomfort.

Claire's stomach cramped. Why would Wesker need to take injections? Were they the reason for those hellish eyes and why he moved so fast? Claire shut her eyes, frantically willing herself to got back to sleep. Packing up the attaché case, Wesker exited the bathroom, pausing to look Claire over. She kept perfectly still, almost forgetting to breathe normally. Her sham must have worked, however, because Wesker moved on and she heard him stowing the case in his nightstand. Lying in the darkness, Claire remembered – and not for the first time – that Birkin had tried to tell her that there were things about the blond tyrant that she didn't know.

She was starting to realize that this had been an understatement. 

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Work's been a really hectic place these past few days, and the coming week isn't looking much better. I don't think I'm going to have much time to write this week, so I probably won't make my next self-imposed Sunday deadline. :( That's why I uploaded a special extra long chapter this week. **

**However, I will definitely return the Sunday after next (July 3****rd****)! Until then, I just wanted you to know that I appreciate all your wonderful comments and reviews, and I'll make every effort to answer them! We shall return to our regularly scheduled program in just a short while, so don't touch that dial. I mean it. Don't touch it, or I'll send Wesker after you and we'll gladly use you for next chapter's plot device. :P**


	8. Chapter 8: Thorns and Roses

Chapter 8: Thorns and Roses

_September 3_

_Mont St. Michel_

_So much has happened, I don't even know what to think anymore. Sherry came by the greenhouse the other day and we said we were sorry for what happened at dinner. After that, she took me to this little café down on the island. I learned that I'm off the cost of Normandy/ France, so that's a plus. It irks me to say it, but the island is incredible, especially the town and the main facility. It's like a little nation all to itself. Sherry and me had some coffee and we talked, and that's when things really got weird. She told me how she saw Wesker after he'd gotten stabbed by the Tyrant, raving on and on about someone called Alex. Sherry says he was crying, but I just can't see it. _

_I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume, just for a minute, that Sherry's telling the truth and "Alex" was somehow involved up at Arklay. Where does that leave me? Chris and Jill and Rebecca AND Barry saw Wesker betray and/or con and manipulate them. I'll take my brother's word over Sherry's any day… but I can't help but feel confused. It's not like everybody just made things up, and they all can't have been stoned or some crap like that. Am I supposed to believe that Wesker has some evil twin brother? _

_Yeah, right. _

_Birkin hinted that there was something about Wesker that I don't know, something pretty bad by the sound of it, and I'm almost 100% sure it ties into the STARS/Arklay fiasco. So far, I can only think about one possible way to explain things. What if "Alex" was someone who threatened Wesker? I don't really don't know anything the man, and neither does Chris for that matter, so I guess it's possible he could have family somewhere. Maybe a sister or a brother, or something. Hell, he could have been married at one time for all I freaking know. What if Spencer said he'd hurt them?_

Over the course of the next week, Claire's journal entries reflected her increasingly confused, uncertain thoughts. She continued going down to the greenhouse, often cataloguing the day's events in her notebook, although sometimes she did nothing more productive other than trying to sketch the flowers. Three of her roses – Claire just couldn't help but to refer to the plants as hers – had wilted even further, their leaves turning yellow at the edges. The fourth one hadn't changed at all and the fifth had lost all of its blooms, though the black spots had faded ever so slightly.

Claire was bent double under the hydroponics trays, trying to wrestle the rubber hose free in order to give her plants a drink, and didn't look up when she heard the door open. She knew who it would be anyway. Wesker casually strolled in, grabbing a plastic chair on his way by and placing it backwards beside Claire. He straddled the chair with his legs as he sat down, his hands folded, watching her work. Claire ignored him and turned on the hose. The cutting-edge greenhouse had the unique ability to adjust the heat of the water, so she lowered the temperature to a chilly 15 degrees since her rose grew in mountains that were decidedly cold.

"I trust you've been keeping yourself occupied," said Wesker after a minute or two.

_God, why can't he leave me to suffer in peace?_ Claire poked the hose through the thorny foliage, confident in her durable purple gloves. She wished Wesker would leave, as his presence caused a storm of unwanted emotions to rise up inside her. "I haven't been bored, if that's what you mean," she told him. "Are you waiting for me to thank you or something?"

Wesker smirked. "It would be the least you could do," he sneered.

"Fine. Thank you," said Claire. Being nice to jerks always confused the hell out them.

"No need to get all worked up, dear heart," said Wesker. "And you might want to consider letting go of the hose before you dislocate your fingers."

Claire realized that she was indeed clutching the rubber hose hard enough to turn her knuckles white. She forced her tense muscles to open, slowly turning to meet Wesker's gaze. "I hate you, do you know that?" she spat, although some distant part of her wondered if this was entirely true. Of late, she found herself hating him more for making her doubt the things he'd done rather than the things themselves.

Wesker's smirk never wavered. If anything, it just grew darker. "That's too bad, dear heart. I know you think of me as a two-faced traitor, but I don't blame you. You don't know how close to the truth you are in that assumption."

"Oh, the two-faced traitor is just the first part," said Claire. "You forgot ill-tempered and deceitful."

"Of course."

Claire wondered if there was a veiled threat hidden in there somewhere. She turned her back to Wesker anyway, just to prove that he didn't frighten her. A heavy silence stretched between them, until Wesker asked lazily, "Why is Chris your only family, dear heart?"

Claire grit her teeth. "You're telling me you don't know? You were supposed to be his Captain."

"So I noticed. Answer the question." Wesker's voice hardened noticeably, brushing her remark aside.

Claire roughly snipped a cluster of dead leaves with her garden sheers, wondering what it would be like to snip Wesker's nose off. Or maybe an ear. " It was nine years ago," she began stiffly. "It was Christmastime, and our Mom and Dad had gone out to celebrate their anniversary, but when 10 o'clock rolled around and they still weren't home, we got scared. Chris took me out onto the porch and he kept me talking about music and stuff, trying to make me feel better. Around midnight, the cops pulled up the driveway and said our parents had been in a car crash. Dad was killed instantly and Mom died in the back of the ambulance before they could get her to the hospital."

Claire's eyes prickled with moisture. She wished she could see Wesker's expression, but she didn't dare turn around. "Chris thought it was his job to take care of me, so he joined the military as soon as he turned eighteen. It didn't last long, though. They discharged him after two years. Said he couldn't take orders if his life depended on it."

Wesker snorted quietly. Claire snipped some more leaves off the worst of her roses. "Anyway, he met Barry and enlisted in S.T.A.R.S. a couple months later," she finished, letting the statement speak for itself, but the mention of S.T.A.R.S. made her guts squirm with anxiety, remembering what Sherry had told her.

"…Why'd you do it?" she asked suddenly, unable to contain herself any longer. "Wasn't your rank in the police force and all the trust and respect you got good enough for you? Why would you throw it all away?"

She heard Wesker shift in his chair, but didn't realize he'd gotten up until his mouth was at her ear, his breath like a furnace against her skin. "Idiocy must be a gene passed down in the Redfield family," he growled. "Just how long do you think you can continue to provoke me?"

"I'm not trying to provoke you," said Claire, determined not to let him see how afraid she was. "I just want an answer."

"And what answer would you like?" Wesker asked. "I'm like this because I choose to be. Compared to the rest of my life, it's been a novel experience."

Claire wasn't lost on the fact that Wesker had purposefully dodged the original question… but why? She tried to move away from him, but he caught her arm, preventing her from leaving. Claire's nerves twitched, torn between anger and a sudden spike of fear. She could see the faint red glow behind his glasses and realized that forcing the S.T.A.R.S. issue was going to get her nowhere, so she decided to push the envelope in another way, searching for a chink in his armor.

"Well, I'd probably be more empathetic about your so-called choices if I knew what they were. You never did tell me why your eyes do that," she said bravely, trying not to wince at the pressure around her arm. She was certain the man's fingers were going to leave bruises.

"And you think I'm going to because…?" Wesker left the question dangling.

"I answered _your_ question," Claire pointed out. "Now it's your turn."

Wesker studied her a moment longer, than released her arm. "Are you familiar with the Progenitor Virus?"

"I guess. It's what they used to the make the T-Virus," Claire answered, rubbing her arm.

"Correct. It's sometimes referred to as the Mother Virus. Without it, nothing would be possible. I was… I still am," Wesker corrected, "part of an Umbrella-sanctioned effort to explore the traits of the virus when used in its undiluted form."

"So, what? It made you stronger?"

"And faster, as I'm sure you've noticed, not to mention augmented healing abilities and superior senses. In many ways, it's the perfect virus, since there is only one outward sign of the mutation and it is easily concealed." He smirked at her, the Devil's salesmen listing all the reasons to purchase his fiendish product. "I am the pinnacle of human evolution, dear heart."

Claire's eyes glinted with anger. "No," she returned scathingly. "You're just another asshole."

"Is that so?" Wesker asked, his voice dangerously smooth. "The virus is harvested from an extremely rare flower that grows only in one region of Africa. In the local Ndipaya tongue, it is referred to _Ngazi kwenye Jua Kali_, or the Stairway to the Sun. Do have any idea what the tribe once used it for?"

"Wooing their girlfriends?" Claire suggested sarcastically.

Wesker's nasty smirk deepened. "They used it to choose their kings."

Claire stared at him for a beat, trying to figure out what he meant. He was leading up to something big, she could tell, and she had a bad feeling it was going to swing things in his favor very quickly. "Yeah? And how did they do that?" she asked.

"The flower – or rather the virus contained within it – is highly volatile. Since the virus restructures the DNA of its host, 98% of those exposed to it undergo rapid mutation, which eventually leads to death. Ndipaya legend holds that the man who could consume the plant and live would be granted incredible powers, and rule over the tribe for hundreds of years, ushering in strength and prosperity."

Wesker smiled at her, his eyes gleaming. "Those men were more than just kings, dear heart. They were considered gods."

Disgust churned inside Claire's stomach, but the worst part was the accompanying spike of awe, no matter how tiny it was. "What, you think that makes you great?" she demanded. "The mighty Albert Wesker, god of the New World? You've got your head so far up your ass you can't even smell the coffee."

Wesker chuckled at her crude assessment of him. "Say what you will, but the facts remain unchanged. I am no longer human. Not entirely. The virus will bond with only 2% of the population, and this is due primarily to a unique and rather rare genetic sequence. Namely mine. Regardless of your personal feelings, or even mine for that matter, I am nothing if not exceptional."

Claire scowled at him. She didn't know how this new information affected her opinion of Wesker, only that she didn't like it. "So is that what Umbrella is? Your great and mighty kingdom, everybody under your boot so you can play god?" she sneered. "You let me know how that goes."

Wesker stepped forward and Claire took an answering step back, dismayed to feel the edge of the table bump against her legs. The blond tyrant had her cornered. "You say that like it's a bad thing," he said, "when in fact it's so much more. The only thing that can defeat power is more power, dear heart. I'm not destroying the world. I'm saving it."

"Save it," Claire spat, fuming. "I don't want to hear it."

"Which is precisely why I'm going to make sure that you do," said Wesker, his hand rising to brush her ponytail. "Umbrella is a corporate entity free to do what it wishes, unbound by any laws of government or state. Who—"

"Then why don't you paint your ugly mug on a flag, raise it above the island, and secede from France?" Claire seethed.

Wesker glared at her, the corner of his mouth twitching suspiciously. "As I was saying, dear heart," he purred, "who do you think was first on scene to any of the recent humanitarian disasters in the world? Whose wealth do you think has preserved thousands of acres of rainforest, or funds institutions like St. Jude's so parents don't have to worry about monetary problems on top of whatever tragedy they've already been forced to endue with their children?"

After not saying anything for nearly a minute, Claire realized that she'd almost let Wesker lull her into believing him. She reminded herself not to fall for it. "Yeah, and I'm sure Spencer had the same noble intentions," she said coolly.

"While my goals are, in some ways, similar to his, I can assure you that my motives are quite different," said Wesker, pulling away from her. Claire continued to scowl at him as he walked away. His movements reminded her of a panther, stealthy and muscular, every inch a dangerous predator, and she couldn't repress a shiver.

As the door closed behind Wesker with a soft hiss, Claire glanced at her rose and realized that a torrent of dark, muddy water was starting to overspill the rim of the planter. Calling a multitude of painful curses down upon Wesker's head, she hastily removed the hose and turned it off, splattering herself with wet dirt. Looking at the swamp now threatening to drown all her hard work, she grabbed a nearby plastic cup and bailed some of the water out, which was when she noticed something that she'd missed during her earlier inspection of the rose.

It was a single flower bud, its pale green leaves folded tightly around a dark core.

The sight was a small victory in itself, a sign that she hadn't yet butchered the plant with her over-pruning, over fertilizing, and now over-watering. Claire grinned broadly. If only she could get it to bloom. That would be worth every single minute. She bailed the water out more quickly and tamped some fresh dirt into the planter to make up for what she'd allowed to wash away. By the time she was done, the afternoon sun was climbing high over the greenhouse. The air was thick with the smell of plants and a light sheen of sweat popped out on Claire's brow. Wiping her face with her sleeve, she decided to go back to Wesker's room, wash up, and take a little nap. It'd been nearly a week since she'd had to sleep during the day in order to keep going, but today the idea seemed like a good one. Putting her tools aside and making sure the hose was off, she left the greenhouse, absently picking dirt out from beneath her fingernails.

Reaching the corridor, she looked up to see a tall man in a long grey coat getting into the elevator. Claire slowed down, content to wait, but the man had already seen her coming. He casually put his hand on the doors, keeping them open for her. The gesture was a universal one and Claire slipped into the elevator with an uncertain smile. "Thanks," she said.

"Of course," the man rumbled, his voice thick with a pronounced Russian accent. "Where are you going?"

"Seventh floor," said Claire, eyeing him. If ever there was a sadist, with that thin gash of a mouth and puckered facial scar, the result of an injury that had apparently robbed him of his eye, this man was it. The elevator started upwards, and an unpleasant crawling sensation went up Claire's spine as the Russian shifted his attention back to her. "I don't think we've been introduced, Doctor…" he glanced at her nametag, "Redfield, is it?"

"Yeah, that's right. And just who are you?" Claire demanded suspiciously.

The Russian didn't seem offending by this snub, however. He reached out for Claire and gently snagged her wrist. "Forgive me, my dear," he rumbled, kissing the back of her hand. "Colonel Sergei Vladimir, at your service."

"Nice to meet you." Claire pulled her fingers out of his grasp.

"The pleasure's all mine."

Claire was uncomfortably aware of how the Russian filled at least half the elevator, cutting into her personal space. It was a very awkward feeling, but Sergei just gave her a charming smile and asked, "So, Dr. Redfield, may I ask vot you're doing today?"

"I just came from the greenhouse," said Claire. She'd gotten pretty good at giving people half-truths and white lies about her true purpose on the island. "I've been working there."

"I see," Sergei rumbled.

"How about you?"

"I'm in command of Umbrella's private little army. Or at least I vas." Sounding resentful, he flipped through the thick red folder he was carrying under one arm. "After the Motherland fell, we all had to look for other jobs, now didn't vi?"

Claire looked the Russian up and down. He was still in pretty good shape for a man encroaching on 50-some years. If not for the scar, his smooth face and gleaming silver hair would probably have made him rather good-looking. Despite her misgivings, Claire thought she could see a suggestion of this if he turned his face the other way. "You were in the Russian army?" she asked.

"The KGB," Sergei corrected. "And it vas still the Soviet Union back then. Spencer gave me a position that I couldn't refuse, a position that the great Albert Wesker," he spat the name like a curse, "saw fit to hand out to someone else, scurrying about like a little black cockroach and lording over a great legacy that vas never his."

His voice was furious and bitter, and Claire felt the skyrocketing tension reaching out to smother her. The elevator stopped, but Sergei made no move to get out of her way. "I'm guessing you two don't get along," said Claire nervously.

Sergei's laugh reminded Claire of brittle ice snapping. "He has always gone out of his vay to oppose my authority, even when he vas nothing more than an arrogant runt at the Training Facility. And Spencer let him do vot he vished! Wesker vas always Umbrella's golden child, the so-called pinnacle of the Project. It vas a rank he never deserved." Sergei's voice dropped slightly, and Claire watched as he ran his thumb along the edge of his folder. She wanted nothing except to get out of the elevator.

"What are you doing?" she asked hesitantly.

Sergei didn't answer, didn't _need_ to answer. What he was doing – giving himself a deep paper cut – was perfectly obvious. "Someday, he vill pay for what he has stolen… someday soon," said Sergei, putting the injury to his mouth and painting his lips with blood. "I vould advice you against getting too close to him, my dear."

Claire backed up a fraction, her stomach churning. "What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

"Vat, you are not staying in his bed? The whole island knows where you return to every night," Sergei leered. "Someday vhen he has you truly alone, you may see another side of him. He thinks he is in control, but someday he vill slip. I have seen it before, and for your sake I hope you are not there vhen he forgets to take his medication."

Chills raced up and down Claire's arms and she was exceedingly glad when the Russian excused himself. Something in his voice, that cruel, taunting edge, made her feel as though Sergei was most certainly not concerned over whatever he thought Wesker might do to her. In fact, Claire got the terrible feeling the Russian would pull up a chair and grab a bowl of popcorn. Feeling ill, Claire hurried to Wesker's room and shut herself in, but the illusion of safety this provided was a thin veneer at best.

Claire showered quickly, but the nap she'd wanted would no longer come. Tired but too wound-up to sleep, she sat on the couch and wrote in her journal, documenting everything Sergei had said, but it didn't help her in reasoning out what he'd meant. The Russian knew Wesker was taking injections and it added a worrisome layer to the mystery. What did everybody around here know that she didn't? Later, with a headache budding in her temples, Claire fixed herself a baked potato. She was just taking it out of the oven when Wesker came into the room.

"You're very pale, dear heart. Is everything alright?" he asked, moving towards his desk.

Claire swallowed. "Yeah, everything's great, especially the creeps you've got working for you around here."

Wesker tilted his head at her. "Oh? Are you referring to someone in particular?" he asked.

"Big dude, white hair, likes cutting himself and licking his own blood. Ring any bells?" Claire demanded, piercing her potato with a fork and cutting it lengthwise.

"That would be Sergei," said Wesker distastefully. "I would keep your distance if I were you."

"Yeah, I kinda figured that out for myself. I get the feeling he doesn't like you very much."

Wesker snorted. "Now there's an understatement," he said darkly.

"Then why keep him around? He's obviously got it out for you," said Claire, taking a stick of butter from the fridge.

"I'm aware of that. However, he's privy to many of Umbrella's darkest secrets and inner workings, and that makes his experience valuable to me, not to mention he would present a large security risk if he were to find employment with another company. That is why I "keep him around", as you put it. Besides," Wesker's voice dropped slightly, "I have long suspected him of being involved in things that concern me personally. It is easier for me to keep tabs on him while he's close, and I have made certain that his power within Umbrella has been drastically reduced."

"Yeah? How so?" Claire asked.

"Sergei was the Captain of the Guard during Spencer's day," said Wesker, a grim smirk on his face. "I have since given that position to Krauser. His intelligence is subpar compared to his predecessor, but he is loyal and efficient, and therefore ideal for the job."

Claire thought of this for a minute, as at least one facet of Sergei's monologue suddenly made sense. So she wasn't the only one subject to Wesker's mind games. Only he'd be confident enough – or arrogant enough, Claire wasn't sure which – to utilize the services of an enemy knowing full well they had a knife concealed behind their back. She looked at him for a minute longer, trying to decide if his domineering personality was something to be admired or despised. Either way, it made him dangerous and Claire went back to her potato, trying not to think about what Sergei had said.

"You're back a little early, aren't you?" she remarked, clearing her throat. "Chemistry set not working today?"

Wesker chuckled to himself and opened the desk drawer. "Of course not, dear heart. I merely need to retrieve my notes." He flipped through the large stack of journals, selected one near the back, and shut the desk, coming around to pass by the kitchen. He eyed the potato in front of Claire and smirked. "Well, it's nice to see you're eating."

His tone was light, but mocking nonetheless. Claire flashed him a look. "And it's nice to know you've taken such an interest in my diet," she returned dryly, picking up her plate. "Would you like one before you go?"

Wesker raised an eyebrow. Claire couldn't imagine what had possessed her to say that, but it was too late to take it back now. She stopped in front of Wesker, waiting until that telltale smirk crept across the blonds' face. "Well, since you asked so nicely, dear heart, I don't think another five minutes will effect my schedule," he said, sitting down at the table.

Claire's nerves jangled – not by how easily he'd accepted, per se – but how easily she'd offered. Without saying anything, she pulled another potato out of the oven, cut it in half, and loaded it with toppings: sour cream, bacon bits, chives, cheese, pretty much everything that went on a potato. After a minute, she pushed it towards Wesker and uneasily sat down.

Wesker's eyebrow lifted again. "What exactly is on this _Thing_?" he asked, pronouncing the word "thing" in a way that made Claire imagine it with a capital letter. She allowed herself a smirk. "Everything," she replied sweetly, before she thought better of it.

Wesker forked up a chunk, eying it like something that had recently eloped from his labs. Claire ate her own potato in silence, not saying anything to Wesker, but acutely aware of his presence. One minute she was arguing with him, the next she was eating lunch at the same table. It was a surreal moment and Claire couldn't help but wonder at this small change in her attitude towards Wesker. More troubling still, why she was allowing it to change, even in the slightest?

Two days later, with this question still preying on her mind, Claire entered the greenhouse to find a large grey seagull perched on the Plexiglas dome, busily trying to crack a mollusk on the hard metal girders. She stopped to watch for a few minutes and eventually the bird was successful, prying the shell apart with its feet and rooting around inside for the delicious meat. It was early morning, so the sprinklers were sending jets of water arcing all over the greenhouse, pattering the flowers and dripping on the hard floor.

Claire methodically sidestepped the puddles, singing softly under her breath and moving towards her table of roses. Upon reaching them, however, she stopped short. "Oh!"

The rose had bloomed, a single large flower nodding near the top of the bush, but it was unlike anything Claire had ever seen before. The appearance of the blossoms had changed dramatically, the petals seeming to boast several colors at once depending on the angle on the sunlight. At first glance it appeared a deep, rich garnet, then Claire shifted and the petals turned black, shimmering with the barest hint of deep purple. Her heart pounding, she touched the rose with her finger, feeling its unusually thick, velvety petals. Its strange new fragrance was deep and spicy, and filled her head with fog. Giddy heat spread though Claire's body as she realized the unimaginable.

Somehow or other, and against all logic, her experiment with the roses had worked.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: And thus Claire tends to her carefully crafted and oh-so-subtle collection of plot devices. Oh, the drama. How's Wesker going to react when he catches wind of this? I think he stated it best in **_**Code Veronica**_**: "Ah, little fishy, come to my hook." ;)**

**Oh, and I've done an illustration for Chapter 2! It's nothing special, but if you've got the time, please check out my DeviantArt profile and let me know what you think! Are there any other scenes you'd like to see brought to life? ^_^**


	9. Chapter 9: A New Genesis

Chapter 9: A New Genesis

"_I've never felt so alone in my life, as I drank from the cup which was counting my time. _

_There's a poison drop in this cup of man. To drink it is to follow the left hand path…"_

Claire watered the newborn rose and began gently misting it with a spray bottle of cold water. She'd nosed around a bit and learned from Dr. Connors' that the rose's native environment was often foggy due to an influx of cold air dropping down from the mountains and clashing with warm, damp air rising up from the surrounding valley. The old woman had been misting the rose for years with little success and Claire had no idea why it seemed to be working now, but it obviously wasn't hurting. The rosebush still looked as though it was in rather poor health, but the black spots had faded dramatically and Claire noticed several clusters of new, bright green leaves getting ready to unfurl.

Claire distantly heard the door to the greenhouse open and Dr. Connors' lilting voice floated through the plants as she conversed with one of the coed's. Setting down her things, Claire sprinted through the greenhouse, her hands shaking with excitement. Coming around the corner, she saw the doctor talking with a tall, dark-haired guy in khakis.

"Dr. Connors!"

"Well, good morning, Claire. Aren't you just a chirpy wee bird this morning? What ever is going on?"

Claire pushed loose strands of hair out of her eyes, grinning so broadly her face was beginning to hurt. "Come see," she urged. "It's your roses. I got one to bloom!"

Dr. Connors' brown eyes went wide. "…What? How?" She hurried through the greenhouse after Claire, leaving the guy she'd been talking with to blink in confusion, a Styrofoam cup of coffee forgotten in one hand. Claire skidded to a halt beside the tray of rosebushes, pointing to the single flower. Dr. Connors stared at it for a long time, one chubby hand moving to touch the unfurling blossom. "This isn't right," she whispered, staring. "It shouldn't look like this."

Claire anxiously explained what had happened, starting with the pollen. "I figured out which ones were resistant to this disease, then I went around and got pollen from them," she explained. "I didn't think anybody would mind, and I thought it would be fun to just… I don't know, play around. And I've been misting them just like you told me."

Dr. Connors reached inside the planter and pulled out a muddy Popsicle stick on which Claire had scribbled the word _Orchid. _"An orchid? But I… I don't understand. Their families are so terribly far apart!" She glanced at the rose as if trying to see some telltale characteristic to indict that it's parentage was part orchid. "Do you remember which one you used? You did keep track better than this, didn't you?" She waved the Popsicle stick.

Claire felt small thrill of panic. "No," she admitted, "but there was only one that came up on the computer. It was from Brazil," she added helpfully.

By now, several other people had come over to investigate the commotion. They were murmuring, pointing, and looking at Claire as if trying to ascertain that yes, they had indeed seen her before. One woman had her cell phone out and was snapping pictures. Dr. Connors told one of them to check the computers for an orchid from Brazil, peppering Claire for exactly what she'd put in the search field. It didn't take long for them to narrow things down.

Dr. Connors put her thick glasses on and bent close to see, her lips moving as she read the description on the monitor. "You're a genius, lass!" she exclaimed. "Cross-species pollination almost never works, and to think… a rose and an orchid! How did you do it?"

Claire flushed and tried to convince Dr. Connors that she'd only been messing around and really didn't have a clue what she was doing, but nobody was listening. Despite her repeated protests, the greenhouse staff was gazing at her with mingled expressions of awe and jealousy, and a few even gave her conspiratorial winks. Someone asked her what school she'd attended. Claire was trying to find a way to answer without getting rude when the crowd behind her parted and she felt a cool chill go down her back. She figured this was exactly how a rabbit felt when a predator was nearby.

"Dr. Connors? Yes, I got your message. What is so important that you thought it required my personal attention?" As always, Wesker's voice was polite, if cool and noticeably impersonal. _A cop's voice, or how a doctor sounds when he really couldn't care less about you,_ Claire thought, resisting the urge to hide as Dr. Connors animatedly pointed out the rose. There was a heavy pause.

"…It's magnificent," Wesker breathed, striding forward. As he bent over the rose and examined its unusual blooms, Claire felt her excitement peter out like a deflating balloon. The crowd began to murmur in earnest and Claire didn't have to hear what they said to know what they were talking about.

"How did you accomplish this?" Wesker asked, looking at Dr. Connors.

The old woman smiled and Claire felt as though a vault was closing over her head. "Well, as much as would like to take credit for it, considering how long I've worked on the wee things, I had nothing to do with this. You need to ask Claire."

Claire felt her heart spasm as Wesker turned to look at her. "Is that so?" he purred, his voice resonating on so low an octave it sent a profound thrill through Claire's body, settling in places she'd rather not think about. "Well, then, dear heart, would you kindly explain to me what it is that you did?"

The entire world slowed down to an agonized crawl. Claire's mind reeled. Fear and embarrassment kept her utterly still, frozen like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming car. Was Wesker planning to kill the rose just out of spite? She couldn't let that happen. It was hers. She'd saved it! She'd worked for it! Claire swallowed, trying to read the gleam in Wesker's eyes, but before she could figure it out, she suddenly identified the tone in his voice and it made her body clench all the harder.

It was satisfaction, and it only increased the elation she was trying to deny herself. Claire considered herself a humble person, but at the thought that she'd done something that nobody else had been able to do… well, she was allowed to feel some kind of pride, wasn't she? As if someone had thrown a switch, Claire suddenly realized that Wesker was still waiting for an answer and she panicked. How long had she stood here without saying anything? But his eyes were still fixed on her face, his expression unchanged. No more than a few seconds had passed.

"It… it was sick. The rose, I mean," Claire managed at last. "I felt bad and I wanted to do something to help, so I looked up the plants that were immune to the disease and I pollinated the rose with them." It sounded so stupid Claire blanched, trying to maintain eye contact despite the squirming in her stomach. "I'm not sure how it worked."

"Neither do I, quite frankly," said Wesker, looking at the rose again. "Unless…" His eyes moved back to her and Claire felt sure they lingered more than necessary on her hand. The partially healed cuts started to itch as though reacting to his scrutiny. Over the whisper of the crowd, Dr. Connors asked what Wesker intended to do with the new rose.

"Give it the best care this facility can offer," he replied, "since it is now the rarest flower in existence and I expect it to be treated as such. Towards that end, I wish to have a word with Dr. Redfield."

The crowd didn't move.

"In private," Wesker clarified smoothly, though his tone left no room for argument.

Shooting glances at Claire – and some of them were decidedly resentful – the mob dispersed. Claire straightened, her heart unconsciously beating faster as she realized that she was now alone with Wesker. "I'm impressed, dear heart," he said, his voice unnervingly deep and mellow. "Even my head botanist never came close to this kind of achievement. May I ask what you're going to call it?"

"…What?"

Wesker smirked at her. "The rose," he said. "You created it. The species is yours to name as you see fit."

Claire felt a wave of heat climb into her face. "It was an accident," she muttered, trying to protest. She didn't want Wesker's praise… or did she? Why did listening to him spark such a fierce glow of pride?

"Are you so sure?"

Claire worked hard to swallow the lump in her throat. She'd never thought this would happen, even in her wildest dreams. Wesker had called it the rarest flower in existence, and it was _hers_. All at once, things felt strange and twisted, and absolutely unbelievable. Some distant part of her brain was waving a red flag, trying to tell her that Wesker's noticeable interest in the rose stemmed from something other than simple curiosity. That was when she realized why he was acting so obviously satisfied with her.

_It's because I did something Umbrella would be proud of. I played God and ended up creating Paradise,_ Claire thought, the sudden epiphany sweeping over her. Facing Wesker, she realized that they were both wearing pristine lab coats with the Umbrella logo stitched over the breast pocket like a badge of allegiance. Claire unconsciously twisted her hands, trying to find some measure of revulsion for her situation, but she just couldn't bring herself to do it right now. Fear stabbed her, knowing that was exactly what Wesker wanted.

"I don't know what to call it," she said, deliberately forgetting about his other question.

"Then think about it. I'm sure it will come to you. In the meantime, would you mind if I took a sample?"

Claire lifted her eyes to his face. He was hovering over the rose, waiting for her permission. Claire nodded slowly and watched as Wesker crammed a petal and a few leaves into a vial. Then the entire container disappeared into his coat pocket. Turning, he closed the distance between them until he was just under arm's length from Claire, forcing her to tip her head back slightly in order to keep her gaze on his face. She was slightly taller than average for a woman, but Wesker was taller still.

"Why did you call me Dr. in front of those people?" she demanded, needing to say something to break the silence. "I nowhere near smart enough to be a doctor of anything!"

Wesker smiled. "Would you like to be?" he purred, sounding amused.

Claire was shocked into silence. What was Wesker implying? That she could be a one of Umbrella's scientists? "If you're asking what I think you're asking, then the answer's no," said Claire, trying to make her voice sound icy. "I'll never be a part of Umbrella and that's final."

"Why not?"

Claire opened her mouth to give him a whole slew of reasons, but before she could, Wesker placed his finger over her lips, making her taste the leather of his glove. "Ah, now think about it, dear heart," he chided. "Before you answer, I want you to ask yourself if what you've done today is so very despicable."

Claire didn't say anything at first, and it took her the better half of a minute to realize that she hadn't jerked away from Wesker like she should have. The heat of his hand – since his temperature seemed to run several degrees higher than a normal person – molded his leather glove to her lips, and she was uncomfortably aware that Wesker had begun to gently move his thumb back and forth under her chin. She pulled her head out of reach, her cheeks burning.

"I'm not sure what to think," she said at last, failing to devise a witty comeback.

Wesker smirked and Claire frowned at him as he turned away. So far, hurling candy dishes at his head was the only thing that really got under the man's skin. Everything else only seemed to amuse him and it frustrated Claire to no end. She licked her lips without even thinking about it, tasting the foamy tang of saddle soap. It was still warm where his finger had been.

Vehemently shaking herself, Claire went back to staring at her rose, forced to admit that – true to her worst fears – she was secretly filled with pride. Wesker had given her an honest compliment and she found herself savoring his words in some dark, forbidden place deep within her soul. For the first time in nearly a week, Claire almost felt happy.

Later that day, after narrowly escaping a mob of people wanting to congratulate her on her "success" and/or wanting to know every aspect of her personal life, Claire was just coming out of the bathroom when Wesker beckoned her over to his desk. With her emotions unraveling from the day's events, Claire irritably came over and folded her arms. "What?" she demanded crossly.

"Watch your tone, dear heart," said Wesker. "Speaking with your brother is a privilege, but I won't have any qualms about revoking it."

That threw Claire for a loop. She stared at Wesker, blinking owlishly. "…You're going to let me talk to him again?" she asked, stunned. She'd assumed Wesker had allowed her on the phone the first time for no other reason other than to remind Chris how powerless he was. "Aren't you worried I'll tell him something?"

Wesker picked up the phone and began to dial. "Go ahead," he stated mildly. "Just don't forget the consequences."

He held the phone out to her, the line ringing ominously in the stillness. For a moment, Claire faced him over the receiver and their eyes locked, issuing a silent challenge. It'd been just over a month since the last time they'd done this, and although things had changed somewhat the issue of trust, i.e. control was still a sore point. Indignant and uncertain, Claire took the receiver and held it to her ear. The line clicked after the fourth or fifth ring.

"_Hi, there!"_

"Jill," said Claire, relieved. "Hey, it's me. How's—"

"_You've reached the home of Chris and Claire Redfield, and me, Jill Valentine. We're out right now, but feel free to leave a message after the beep." _

Claire's heart fell. This was so unbelievably typical. Wesker had given her a chance to talk to her brother and she got the goddamn answering machine. Heaving a sigh, she waited for the beep. "Hey, uh… Chris? It's Claire. I just wanted to tell you and Jill that I'm okay and—"

Suddenly, the line picked up and Jill's frantic voice – her real voice, not a recording – filled Claire's ear. "Claire? Oh, my God, is that really you?" she gasped.

"Well, I'm not sure. I know my brother wears SpongeBob boxers, so what do you think?" said Claire, relief swelling in her chest. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Wesker raise an eyebrow, but she couldn't bring herself to care. On the phone, Jill sounding like she was stuck in between laughing and crying.

"When we didn't hear from you, we thought… Oh, who gives a damn?" she exclaimed. "Chris! Chris, get down here! It's Claire!" Judging by the sound, Jill was holding the phone slightly away from her face. There was a distant pounding, the sound of somebody running– no, _hurtling_ down the stairs, and the phone changed hands.

"Claire-bear?" Chris sounded wild and out of breath. In the background, Claire could hear Jill yelling at her brother to please wrap a towel around himself and she started to laugh. "Did… did you just get out of the shower?" she giggled, trying to picture Chris standing in the buff.

"Damn straight," said Chris vehemently. "Are you alright? What's that bastard been doing to you? I swear, if he's touched you I'll tear his goddamn head off!"

Claire was momentarily taken aback by the force of her brother's hatred. "Chill out, Chris," she said, uncertain how to describe the feeling that suddenly coursed through her. "I'm okay, and I'm feeling much better, too."

"Yeah? You still taking those shots?" asked Chris darkly.

"I have to. And no, they're not tranquilizers or anything like that. I think I'd know if they were," said Claire. She was getting stronger and she wasn't sleeping nearly as much during the day. That pretty much ruled out the possibility of sedatives, at least in her mind. "Anyway, I've been eating a lot more and getting plenty of sun in the greenhouse," she said, sitting on the edge of Wesker's desk. The blond tyrant was typing on his computer, but she knew better than to think he wasn't listening in.

"A greenhouse? What the hell would Wesker need a greenhouse for?" Chris demanded.

"Chris, will you please throw a blanket on or something! Your tic-tac is not _that_ exciting!" Jill's voice echoed distantly through the phone line. There was some grumbling, followed by the flap of cloth. "So, what about the greenhouse?" Chris asked, sounding mildly embarrassed.

Claire explained what she could, unable to deny that she'd formed an unlikely attachment to the place. It was strange how quickly she'd gotten used to it, but she liked the greenhouse, the blazing sun and the heavy smell of plants. "You wouldn't believe everything that's growing in there, Chris. There's palm trees and orchids and medicinal herbs, and all sorts of endangered stuff from around the world. There's even roses."

_Especially roses_, Claire thought, warmth ballooning inside her. She wondered if she should tell Chris.

"So he just lets you wander around on your own?" asked Chris. "Are you kidding me?"

"No, but the ID card he gave me only works for one or two levels, and the isl– this place is built like a fortress. I couldn't go anywhere even if I wanted to," said Claire, but even as the words left her lips she realized that "not going anywhere even if I wanted to" was a far cry from "not going anywhere even if I tried". The concept was a frightening one.

"So you're sure you're alright?"

"Give it a rest, will you? I already said I am," said Claire. "Anyway, Sherry's here with me. Isn't that great?"

"Sherry? Aw, man… are you sure?"

"Well, yeah. Geez, do you think I've gone blind or something?" Claire demanded crossly. "I met her in the greenhouse about two weeks ago. She's grown a lot since the last time I saw her. It's seriously scary. Anyway, we talked and hung out, and all that happy stuff. She's doing fine as far as I can tell."

"Huh. For being a prisoner," Chris grumbled.

"Oh, get real. Her dad's here, too."

"You mean that guy… aw, crap what's his name? Birkin!" Chris exclaimed, clicking his fingers. "Didn't you tell me he turned into Godzilla and chased you all over the goddamned city?"

"Go figure, huh? I swear, people are cropping up all over the place around here. So, what's happening with you and Jill?"

Chris paused. Claire could almost see him blinking. "Huh?"

"You heard me," said Claire. "I don't know how long I've got to talk to you," she glanced sidelong at Wesker, "and I don't want to spend it all talking about if I'm feeling better than yesterday, alright? I just… I just don't want you to worry."

"Yeah, well, until you're outside washing your motorcycle that's not gonna happen," said Chris sourly. "You're acting like you're just at some rehab center or something! Stop pretending that you're safe, because you aren't and don't forget it." His voice was dark and angry, laced with bitterness.

Claire's stomach twisted. "Chris, come on," she pleaded.

There was a testy word from Jill and a dull thud. Claire got the feeling her brother had just been elbowed. Grumbling, Chris relented by giving her a quick verbal replay on all the insignificant little things that had occurred during the past month.

"There's really not much to tell. I get up, I sit on the couch, Jill goes shopping, we eat, and I go back to bed. Rinse and repeat," said Chris, his words followed by another bout of indistinct background chatter. "Jill says to tell you somebody discovered some old Spanish castle or mission or whatever the hell you call it up in the mountains about eighty miles outta town. It's been all over the news."

"Really? Sounds cool," said Claire, her interest piqued.

"Whatever. I tell you one thing, though. It's riled up some crazy-ass church group. Talk about nutters. They're all over town pasting flyers on any flat surface they can find, including my windshield," Chris muttered. "Took me an hour to get the glue off, and by then I think I knew their stupid bulletin by heart. Judgment Day's coming, don't you know?"

Claire sniggered. "That's what you get for not parking in the garage," she said.

"The garage? Have you looked in there lately? It's turned into Jill's personal storage barn!" Chris exclaimed.

At that moment, something in Wesker's pocket began to ring softly. Shifting, he pulled out a sleek black Palm Pilot and tapped it with his thumb. Claire saw a short burst of words pop up on the screen. _Test complete. You need to see this. –Will_

Wesker replaced the device in his pocket, turning his attention to Claire. "Alright, dear heart. Say your goodbyes to Chris. There's someplace I have to be," he said, getting up from his chair.

Claire nodded mutely. A sharp pain cut across her chest at the thought that she might not hear from Chris again for another month, but pushing her luck was not an option. She was having a hard time believing Wesker was being this generous to begin with. "I gotta go, Chris," she said quietly, her throat tightening. "I love you."

"What? Claire, come on! Don't go!" Chris cried, and Claire's heart wanted to break.

"I'm sorry, Chris. I'll try to talk to you again real soon, alright? I miss you guys a lot."

"Claire-bear, I…" Chris swallowed, cleared his throat. "I love you, too. Please, be safe, okay?"

"I will," Claire whispered and she hung up the phone, coughing slightly to mask the sound of her wanting to cry. Shivers raced across her skin as Wesker's casually stroked the curve of flesh where her neck met her shoulder. "It is regrettable that things are like this, dear heart," he said quietly. "Don't make yourself miserable."

Claire swallowed a very, very hard lump in her throat. _Go away. Please, just go away._

He squeezed her shoulder, showing her the barest hint of the strength he was capable of, and then moved towards the door. Claire looked around the room, at the granite walls and massive bed, at the heavy drapes and leather sofa set. It was simultaneously a haven and a prison to her, just like the greenhouse, just like the island. Just like her rose. And as this thought occurred to Claire, part of one of her favorite songs came floating up to great her, coming out of whatever forgotten place such things are kept.

"Nightwish," she said suddenly, and Wesker turned to look at her. Claire faced him squarely, though she did not get up from her seat on his desk. "The rose. I want to call it Nightwish," she told him. "Unless that won't work."

A smile coiled itself around Wesker's lips. "It's perfect," he rumbled. 

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I made another illustration for the story! Whoo-hoo! :) I've been working on this one for a while and I'm very pleased with how it turned out. Beware Wesker's smexy smirky-smirk. We all know what he's thinking. It goes something along the lines of "Come to the dark side, dear heart. We have cookies."**

**A great BIG thanks goes out to everyone who's taken the time to review! I can't describe how much I appreciate you guys for providing my weekly inspiration. ^_^ And in case you're wondering, the song Claire is referring to is quoted at the beginning of the chapter. I thought it reflected her current feelings towards Umbrella and Wesker. **


	10. Chapter 10: Wesker's Vulnerability

Chapter 10: Wesker's Vulnerability

In a place far more sinister than the botanical gardens, Umbrella researchers were hard at work trying to crack the secrets of life itself. Lab 3, located on sub-basement level five, was surgically clean and precise, and everything – even the floor – was painted in a neutral hue of white. All of the furniture was stainless steel, glinting blindingly in the overhead fluorescents. That was one of the main reasons Wesker had taken to wearing sunglasses in the first place.

"It's amazing, isn't it, Will?" he murmured, peering intently into a powerful electron microscope.

"I'll say. I've never seen T-Veronica behave like that. That's why I thought you should see for yourself. I think we're looking at an entirely different strain." Wielding a pencil that look sharp enough to pierce Kevlar, Birkin made a tick mark on his clipboard. "What's the breeding of this rose again?"

"Austrian rose and Brazilian orchid."

"You're kidding me, right?"

"No," Wesker responded quietly, "I'm not. It's an entirely new species."

After running several tests – and then running them again to insure no errors had been made – Wesker was now certain that his initial hunch had been correct. The rose defied all known rules of botany, not to mention at least a dozen bylaws put forth by Mother Nature herself. The concept that the DNA of two entirely different species could intertwine to form an absolutely perfect, healthy composite of both was unheard of. It simply had never been done before, and Wesker knew the reason why in no uncertain terms.

The scratches on Redfield's hand were physical proof of what he'd discovered in the lab. Somehow, her blood had been absorbed into the mother rose, sparking a molecular chain reaction that was nothing short of extraordinary. Wesker had studied the effects of T-Veronica for years, coming to know exactly how the virus responded to organisms, fashioning a yardstick to gauge it's characteristic patterns of mutation. The original strain of T-Veronica had, among other things, been combined with plant DNA. Or, more specifically, the DNA of the Ndipaya flower itself, the vessel from which the Mother Virus was born. This made it especially easy for the virus to interact with vegetative organisms.

Of course, this didn't explain why the rose hadn't mutated beyond its current form. Cutting a tiny piece from one of the rose's leaves, Wesker transferred it to a Petri dish filled with a thin film of chemicals. He placed an electrode in shortly thereafter, watching through a microscope as the electric current began to separate the charged particles. "What do you make of this, Birkin?" he asked, beckoning the geneticist over.

Birkin crowded in front of the microscope and adjusted the focus. "Huh. Look at these T-Virus cells." He picked up a pointed wooden dowel and gestured to the Petri dish, affording Wesker a view on the overhead monitor. "They're bonded with nearby cells, but they're not spreading, and they're not—"

"Not showing any aggression," Wesker finished. "I noticed it, too."

The two men shared a glance. The reason for T-Virus's dangerous chemical and biological reactions was due primarily to its uncontrollability. Upon entering a host cell, it multiplied inside and then exploded outward into the body, destroying the original cell and spreading to another area. As the ruined cells began to mount, T-Virus's ability to reanimate dead cells finally kicked in and victim slowly succumbed to the buildup of fluids in the brain that destroyed the intricate cerebral pathways until only the most basest of instincts were left, and all of those included violence, hunger, and killing.

The ability to select certain characteristics of the T-Virus while bypassing its more dangerous elements was a goal Wesker had worked decades to attain, especially since he'd garnered control of Umbrella. Birkin wasn't surprised to see a red, feral glint enter his colleague's eyes.

"We're going to have to run more tests," said Wesker. "And I want to use living organisms."

Birkin sighed. "You know, every time you say that you're literally declaring a rodent genocide," he said. "Do you have any idea what kind of bill this island runs up buying mice? Pet shops in France must love us."

"Be happy I'm not Spencer and don't declare a human genocide," said Wesker icily.

"Relax, Al. I'm just kidding," said Birkin, shaking his head. Sometimes he was certain his long-time friend had an Intel processor for a brain. This belief had progressed into other parts of his anatomy as well, since the blond was currently sharing a room with a pretty woman and had yet to take notice. And on that note:

"It's amazing Redfield managed this all by herself," said Birkin. "What kind of degree in biogenetics does she have?"

Wesker smirked wryly. "None. She's a college major in creative writing and English, I believe."

Birkin's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "So she discovered this on dumb luck?"

"Not exactly. The presence of her blood was happenstance, but her choice of breeding stock was remarkably clever, as was her continued care of the plant. I believe it is one of the only DNA combinations that would prove compatible with T-Veronica, though further testing would be required to confirm that," said Wesker, feeling as though he could be generous.

Birkin's wintergreen eyes twinkled, but he said nothing. They divided the remaining samples into six vials, using droppers to fill the reservoirs with fluid. After placing each vial into an agitator tray and setting the computer, Birkin reminded Wesker that they were scheduled to do an autopsy in a neighboring lab. Wesker growled faintly, obviously displeased by the interruption, but he knew it was important.

They suited up in full biohazard gear and stepped into a sealed room that was paneled on three sides by indestructible glass. Overhead in the corner, a security camera panned up and down, zooming in its lens. Every single inch of the lower labs was constantly under the scrutiny of Red Queen, the neural core of the facility's security systems. Vitoria Tanner, an aloof former heart surgeon and a blond, clean-shaven man Wesker did not recognize were already in the lab and greeted him politely as he stepped through the decontamination shower. He nodded his acknowledgement, stepping over to the operating table and pulling on the plastic sheet. Underneath was a hulking, broad-shouldered figure about seven to eight feet high, with a shaven head and colored visor permanently bolted to its skull. The beast had been in cold storage for at least a day or more, judging by the frost and overall tone of its skin.

"Wow. I'd forgotten how big the T-103's are," said Birkin, adjusting the plastic sling containing his arm.

Wesker folded up the sheet and handed it over to the man, who briefly introduced himself as Shappert. The T-103 "Ivan" was the height of the Tyrant project, as their intelligence was far superior to the older models and they could be instructed to follow simple commands. At one time Sergei had utilized them as his personal bodyguards, something Wesker had been quick to disband after Krauser had been promoted to Captain of the Guard. Because they were far too valuable to destroy, however, he'd placed both Ivan models in stasis. The death of one of only two prototypes was unfortunate and worrisome.

Tapping the control pad on his wrist, Wesker started a new audio recording. The procedure had proved to be an annoyance more often than not, but he forced himself to adhere to it anyway.

"September 14, 2001. Albert Wesker. Begin autopsy log. Subject is a T-103 Tyrant, prototype Ivan. Death occurred," he glanced at the clipboard attached to the side of the table, "between 10:15 and 10:20am on September 13, 2001. Cause of death is currently unknown, but suspected to be related to the degeneration of cells."

"Yeah, it's called old age," Birkin put in helpfully. "These things only have a three or four-year shelf-life at the most."

Wesker ignored him, choosing not to comment on Birkin's oh-so-subtly placed gibe. Picking up a scalpel, he began the autopsy by cutting the traditional Y-shaped incision down the length of the Tyrant's body, starting at both shoulders and finishing deep in the beast's crotch. Vitoria reached inside and carefully began removing the lower organs, injecting them with grey liquid, placing them in plastic bags, and transporting them to the freezer. Wesker ordered large samples of blood to be taken and handed Shappert a syringe of anticoagulant. The younger man injected the chemical into the large blood vessel running the length of the Tyrant's arm, then stepped back to help Birkin while the thinner went to work.

Wesker was basically working on autopilot, his mind occupied with thoughts of Claire's rose. If he were to combine it with a raw sample of the T-Virus, what would happen then? Would it enhance the virus' natural mutative abilities or halt them altogether? Wesker briefly pondered what properties Nightwish essential oil would contain, and if it could be put to good use in any of the powerful drugs the facility still had in development.

He reached inside the Tyrant's chest cavity and sliced the primary aorta, freeing up the lungs, which was when his sharp eyes noticed something lodged in the chest cavity directly behind the heart. Pale, muscular tendrils snaked through the growing pool of bodily fluids. Wesker swung the overhead lamp around to afford himself a more direct source of light.

"Abnormal feeler-like growths encountered in chest cavity, possibly due to an unknown mutation," he said, recording the discovery. Shappert had taken a gleaming, wicked-looking injection gun – an Umbrella trademark for massive doses or tough, hard-to-penetrate skin – and had inserted it into the Tyrant's arm. Dark, curdled blood was draining into the helix-shaped reservoir.

"They appear to have attached themselves to the spinal column, as well as the heart and neighboring organs," Wesker continued, picking up a scalpel. "Due to the appearance of purulent tissue, the damage may be recent, possibly occurring a day or two before the subject's death. The circumstances warrant a closer investigation, and I suspect malpractice or incompetence on the behalf of facility personnel."

Vitoria and Birkin shared an uneasy glance. Such an accusation did not bode well, especially coming from the chairman, but they continued their work without saying anything. Vitoria placed the left lung in a large plastic bag, zip-tied the top, and used a Sharpie to mark the contents, as well as the date and time of removal. Shappert turned with the injection gun, preparing to put it in cold storage.

Using a gloved finger Wesker pushed the Tyrant's heart aside, finding that the feelers were tied to an unrecognizable lump behind the sternum, nestled between where the lungs should have been. "There seems to be a foreign body present in the chest cavity. I'm going to attempt its removal."

Using the scalpel and a small pair of forceps, he prodded the growth…

…And all hell broke loose. The Tyrant jerked, its limbs convulsing. Birkin sprang back and Wesker swore sharply, seizing the Tyrant's arm in an instinctive attempt to force it down. The lamp unit clattered to the floor and broke. Shappert let out a high-pitched yell of surprise and whirled, mindless of the injection gun still clutched in one hand. Before anybody could cry a warning, the four-inch needle stabbed into Wesker's arm, piercing his thick rubber suit with a stiff _pop_.

In seconds, the pressure-loaded syringe forcibly began to drain.

Wesker convulsed violently as the contaminated blood flooded his system and he reeled back, eyes wide. Birkin watched in horror as the muscular spasms actually flung him face down on the linoleum floor. "Albert!"

Birkin dropped to his knees, cursing his crippled arm as he tried to drag his superior into a sitting position. Was he dead? Or was he just dying, a wayward bubble from the syringe sending him into a massive seizure? Shappert stood frozen, the wicked instrument still clutched in one hand, as Birkin tried to see Wesker's face through their cumbersome helmets.

"Albert!" he cried, shaking him while Vitoria ran to the intercom. "Albert, are you alright?"

Wesker's face was ashen. One hand convulsively gripped Birkin's arm. "Stop shouting, you ignorant cretin!" he rasped, grimacing. "The intercom's still on!"

Birkin mentally kicked himself, realizing he'd forgotten about the headsets they were wearing. He lowered his voice at once. "Sorry," he gasped. "No, don't try to get up! Stay down."

"I will not," Wesker growled, forcing his arm beneath him. "Either help me up or get out of my way, Birkin!"

Birkin winced at his tone. Wesker used his last name only when he gave an order he expected to be followed immediately. He levered the man to his feet and was certain he'd fall, but Wesker's indomitable self-control held like cold, braided steel. Panting slightly, the man composed himself and straightened. The Tyrant's heavy arm had toppled off the table and hung dangling, the limb of a gruesome ragdoll. The beast itself was still, with only a few muscular twitches running through its lower limbs. The lab went deathly quiet as Wesker leveled a truly murderous glare upon Shappert, almost as if he could kill him with the force of gaze alone.

The younger man gulped, his freckles standing out like the plague. "Sir, I… I'm sorry! It was an accident! I swear to God!"

A pair of doctors and an armed security guard appeared outside the lab, peering in with wide eyes. The woman in the group hit the intercom and bent close. "Sir, is everything alright? Do you need any help? We're ready to send in medical teams."

"That won't be necessary," said Wesker tightly. He resisted the urge to clutch at his burning arm. Looking back at the Tyrant, he frowned at the lump inside its chest. Whatever it was, prodding it had caused a significant muscular spasm, so it stood to reason that the growth was somehow attached to the beast's nervous system. He very much wanted to investigate further, but he needed to remove himself from the lab, a victim of his own security procedures. He gestured to Vitoria. "I want a biopsy performed on that abnormal growth," he said. "Put the subject in restraints, or use chemical inhibitors. There will be no more incidents, is that clear?"

"Yes, sir. Perfectly clear."

"As for you," Wesker returned his glare to Shappert. "You are suspended from this lab until further notice. I suggest you request a more competent assistant, Ms. Tanner."

Shappert gulped, sweat gleaming on his sickly pale face. Birkin had a feeling that the young man was fresh out of med-school and had gained a post in the lower labs due solely to his academic standing, but it was clear that he'd never been around creatures like this before. An incident like this could ruin his career and for a minute Birkin almost felt sorry for the kid, but there were procedures, little handbooks that had to be followed. It was Wesker's prerogative on how harshly he enforced them. The blond Tyrant stormed from the lab and Birkin followed him closely, feeling a little nauseous. In the decontamination shower, Wesker roughly thrust both arms out and let the mist pour over his body.

A minute later, he was stripping out of his biohazard suit and reaching into an overhead locker for the first aid kit. Birkin pulled his helmet off with a hiss of escaping oxygen. "You're going to need more than that," he exclaimed. "That blood was a level 5 contamination at least! The antidote—"

"Is unnecessary. My virus will counteract the infection in a few hours," said Wesker, keeping his voice low. His upper arm was red and swollen at the injection site. Birkin watched anxiously as the blond poured iodine over the puncture without flinching, allowing oxidized brown rivulets to run down his arm and drip on the floor. God, the man was inhuman. There was no telling how much that stung.

"Albert, listen to me," said Birkin, urgently trying to get through to him. "You're taking a big risk. There's no telling how the virus will react with your system. You need to take the antidote, and I'm telling you this as a friend."

"And I'm telling you to drop it," Wesker snapped. He unwrapped a pad of gauze and placed it over the injury, using his teeth to tear off a strip of medical tape. "You're correct in assuming the virus might react with my system, but I fail to see the wisdom in adding yet another chemical cocktail to my bloodstream on top of the ones I already have."

"Al—"

"Drop it," Wesker growled, and his eyes flashed crimson.

This time his tone left no room for argument and Birkin was smart enough to realize it. He knew from experience that pushing the matter would get him nowhere and quite possibly drive Wesker to a dangerous tipping point. Churning with helplessness and a certain feeling of dread, Birkin said nothing more to Wesker as he dressed himself and stalked out. Due to the viral augmentation in his body, he never got sick, healed from broken bones in mere days, and was in no danger of succumbing to the strain of T-Virus running rampant through his system…

…But Wesker had a bad feeling his night was going to be a living hell.

* * *

><p>Claire's rose was doing well. Several large flowers had opened up, each one displaying the dark, distinctive, and vaguely iridescent qualities of the first. The greenhouse staff had moved the surrounding roses away not only to give the hybrid flower room to breathe, but also because to prevent any and all possible cross contamination. Claire was almost scared to go near it anymore, afraid that she might accidently undue all her work by giving it the wrong fertilizer or something equally inept. Sherry was sitting on the edge of the workstation, grinning at Claire as she worked. Except for the young girl, the mob of admirers had finally cleared out.<p>

"You know you're amazing, right?" Sherry asked.

Claire groaned inwardly. "Thanks, but just so you know, I'm stabbing the next person that says that to me," she grumbled, wielding her trowel like a deadly weapon. "It was just an accident! What part of that don't you get?"

Sherry smirked at her, knowing that Claire only partially meant it. "Yes, well, did you know that a guy once tried to make a notepad that you could affix to anything and it wouldn't come off? Problem was, he couldn't find the right glue. It wouldn't stick for good, but he saw that you could put 'em up anywhere and still take them down. Know what they're called today?"

Sherry flashed her a cheeky smile. "Post-It Notes," she finished with relish. "They were an accident, too."

Claire laughed and shook her head. The sun was starting to sink in the west, illuminating the greenhouse in shades of orange and deep gold. Shadows lay across everything, the plants nodding in the breeze pouring in from outside. Claire liked the breeze and since nobody had ever complained or told her otherwise, she frequently opened the doors to the courtyard. A flock of gulls swooped by, calling out as if to challenge the sea far below. Claire pointed at them with her trowel.

"Fun Fact: my brother calls them beach chickens."

Sherry giggled, watching as Claire started to remove her gloves. "What me to show you how to take them off if you're working with viruses and stuff?" she asked suddenly.

Claire took a deep breath. "They make you do that in school?" she asked.

"Yeah, but daddy showed me first," said Sherry, getting off the table. She took Claire's gloves from her and put them on. "First, you pinch the cuff of one hand like this and you pull it off inside-out. Then you ball it up in your other hand and turn the other glove inside out around it. See?" Moving briskly, Sherry held up the neatly rolled-up gloves for Claire's inspection. "That way you don't get any germs on your hands."

Claire eyed the gloves. "You know, that's pretty cool," she said, to her own amazement. Sherry made the motion look so fluid, as if it came second nature to her. Unbidden, an image of Wesker doing the same thing sprang into Claire's mind and she couldn't help the rush of heat that wracked her from head to toe. She swallowed. What was wrong with her?

"Let me try," she said to Sherry.

She put the gloves on and botched the technique only once before getting it right, much to Sherry's enjoyment. "That's it, Claire! You know… if you ever want to learn some other stuff, just ask and I'll be happy to show you," she said, beaming shyly from beneath her bangs.

Claire's smile gathered strength. "Really?"

"Sure!"

"Well…" Claire wasn't unintelligent, but Umbrella's microscopes were somewhat more complicated than the ones she'd used in high school. Before Raccoon City had turned her world upside down and taught her to fear things that went bump in the night, she'd liked chemistry, and even some biology so long as it stayed away from the dead frogs. Her teacher had once given her a little blue microscope and she'd spent hours wandering the backyard for specimens, cataloging what she saw in a Bugs Bunny notepad. To Claire's mingled fear and delight, old interests were kindling inside her. "…Can you show me how to use a microscope?"

A radiant grin lit Sherry's face. "Of course! Come on, grab a leaf and we'll get started."

Claire picked a leaf from a nearby plant and Sherry showed her how to put it on a slide, warning her to be careful of its keen edges. She showed her how to adjust the focus and light, and how to change the UV spectrum in order to look for certain things. Claire never knew there were so many things on a microscope. It was exciting.

"If you think that's neat, you should see the ones they have in the real labs," said Sherry enthusiastically.

Claire would have liked to stay later, but after receiving a lesson on the proper use of a Petri dish, as well as a quick run-through on the various chemicals used to stain the sample being used, most of the greenhouse staff had cleared out for the evening. Besides, Sherry had homework since diplomas like hers didn't come cheaply. The girls parted with a hug, with Sherry promising to come back tomorrow, and Claire left the greenhouse in an exceptionally good mood.

She unlocked Wesker's door with the growing ease of practice and stepped inside. His room was alarmingly dark, the lights off, the curtains tightly drawn. Claire froze in the doorway. She always opened the curtains before she left in the morning, mostly because it annoyed the hell out of Wesker, since the vampiric bastard was clearly allergic to Vitamin D. Claire nervously scanned the room with her eyes, but Wesker was not at his computer. Except for what was pouring out of the hallway behind her, the only light in the room was coming from the bathroom. The door was shut, but not all the way. A thin beam of light sliced across the floor.

Claire didn't know what it was, but something felt wrong.

She approached the bathroom, her ears picking up on the low rush of water. Claire's stomach tied itself into squirming knots, but she bravely reached up and pushed the door open another inch or so, terrified by what she might find on the other side. Nude to the waist, Wesker was bent over the sink, his shirt discarded on the floor. The tap was on, splashing in the basin. Blood and sick stained the pristine white porcelain, swirling around the drain as Wesker groaned, a strangled noise of pure agony, and hunched further over the sink.

Claire's eyes went wide, staring at the sweaty, heaving planes of his back. "Oh, my God… _Wesker_?"

He turned on her, his eyes flaming, and Claire's heart slammed against her ribs. Wesker's face was ashen and strands of blond hair clung to his forehead. "…Leave." Wesker's voice broke. "Now."

"But…" Claire tried to breathe, but her chest felt tight. "What's wrong?"

A tremor ran through Wesker's body. He gripped the edge of the sink so hard the porcelain cracked. "That's none of your concern," he gritted. "Now get out! OUT!" His voice rose sharply, cutting across Claire like an icy whiplash. She backed up, frightened, but didn't leave the bathroom. There were no mind games, no manipulation. Just Wesker in a lot of pain, and despite all the mental anguish he'd caused her, Claire just didn't feel right about leaving him. She swallowed the rock lodged in her throat.

"…Do… do you want me to get you something?" she asked.

"Goddammit, woman, I said GET OUT!" Wesker bellowed, and his eyes blazed so fiercely they left glowing trails in the air when he moved, lunging towards her. It was if as mask had slipped off his face, leaving his expression feral and malevolent. His arm was already cocked back, his hand pointed, almost as if he intended to drive it through her chest and tear out her beating heart. Raw instinct took over and Claire's legs jerked, tangling together and sending her sprawling backward onto the floor. Her vision narrowed to Wesker's eyes, the cruel half-smirk twisting his lips, and acid filled her throat. She scrabbled back with a cry.

And then, suddenly, Wesker froze in mid-step. The expression of rage slid off his face and turned to horror. "No," he gasped, clutching his head between his hands. "No, no, NO!"

Claire watched, terror-stricken, as Wesker lurched past her. Reaching his nightstand, he ripped the drawer open, scattering the contents across the floor, and grabbed the black attaché case. He took out one of the syringes, but his hands shook and he fumbled the needle, driving it into his arm so hard it almost snapped. Claire cried out softly as he forced the plunger down, draining the serum.

Then as if he'd abruptly reached the limit of his strength, Wesker collapsed into the corner between the nightstand and the bed, panting like a wounded animal. The empty syringe slipped from his fingers and hit the ground with a plastic _chink_.

Filled with a kind of abject horror, Claire forced herself into a sitting position, dismayed to realize her arms were shaking and not very willing to support her weight. There was a long moment of silence, broken only by Wesker's harsh breathing. Claire had no idea what had just happened and lingering fear made her sick. She coughed and sour fire burned her throat. Every time she blinked she could see him towering above her, his face twisted with utter malice. Stumbling to her feet, Claire made for the door. She wasn't going to spend another minute in this room!

She heard movement and was certain Wesker was coming after her, but a sharp gagging noise made her stop and turn around despite her best instincts. Doubled over on his hands and knees, Wesker had been stricken by another bout of vomiting, convulsing from whatever illness he was suffering from. From where she was standing, Claire could see blood. She drew in a sucking breath. It felt as if the bottom of her stomach had suddenly dropped out. Wesker was hurt and sick, and the thought of leaving him unexpectedly made her insides cramp with shame. It wasn't right. She had to help, or at least try.

And if he attacked her again…

Clenching her jaw, Claire cautiously approached the bed, bending down in front of Wesker. He opened his eyes to look at her, their firegold depths glazed with pain. Claire reached out and grabbed his arm, shocked by how hot his skin felt. "Come on, get up. Get on the bed," she urged fearfully.

Grunting and straining, Claire somehow managed to hoist Wesker's nearly unresponsive form onto the bed. What on earth could have made him so sick? Thinking about that this man did for a living, visions of Ebola and smallpox flashed through Claire's head and cold shivers racked her body. He could very well die. Hell, she could die if she got whatever it was that was making him sick.

"I… I'm going get Birkin," she said suddenly, renewed terror surging through her.

She made to get up, but Wesker abruptly seized her wrist, making her gasp. His grip was weakened, but still stronger than any normal man. Claire felt the tendons in her arm begin to pop. "No," he growled, forcing the word through clenched teeth.

"Let me go," Claire gasped, frightened. "You need help."

Wesker's grip tightened until Claire whimpered in pain, but he didn't seem to care. He pulled her forward a fraction, his slitted eyes glowing dangerously. "I don't need anyone's help," he snarled, panting. "This illness is a passing annoyance, nothing more, and you—" he convulsed, struggled to keep talking, "—will not involve anyone from this facility, is that clear?"

Claire gaped at him.

"Is that clear?" Wesker repeated, and Claire felt certain her wrist was going to crack.

"Yes," she gasped, little tears of pain threatening to spill from her eyes. Wesker's grip on her loosened immediately, almost as if he barely had the strength to keep it up anyway. Pinching his eyes shut, he doubled over on himself, biting back a groan. Claire felt sick and indignant and angry all at once, but she could help but feel sorry for her tormentor. He was desperately ill, but too arrogant to admit he needed help. Or maybe he was just afraid of people finding out what he was. Rubbing her aching wrist, Claire decided to do as she'd been told, but she promised herself that if Wesker's skin started falling off or he began hemorrhaging from the eyes, she was going for somebody whether he liked it or not.

Looking down at him in the dim light, the obvious pain he was experiencing dissolved some of her fury. He looked different without his glasses. He looked naked, _vulnerable_, and Claire didn't like it. She was very much like her brother in that she hated seeing people sick and Wesker was no exception, even if he was an evil bastard. Going to the kitchen, Claire knotted several ice cubes into a damp dishtowel, making an improvised compress. She placed it against Wesker's forehead, where she could see his veins standing out. She jumped when he twitched, however, his eyes flying open.

"It's just ice," she told him nervously. "Relax. I'm trying to help you. Or are you going to tell me you don't need that, either?"

Swallowing, Wesker shut his eyes again without saying anything. Now whether he was giving her permission to continue or simply didn't have the energy to protest, Claire didn't know, but she decided it didn't matter. She dabbed his burning forehead with more care than she thought herself capable of showing towards him, getting another cold towel and lifting his head to put it behind his neck. Despite being hot and oily with sweat, Wesker's hair was surprisingly soft, not crusty as Claire thought it would be.

_Why am I doing this? Why do I even care?_

Wesker shivered slightly, this time more from cold than pain, so Claire pulled the sheet up around him. He was still burning with fever, so she didn't dare cover him with anything heavier. The room grew unnaturally quiet. No cars in the distance, no hum of an air conditioner, just Wesker's shallow breathing. Claire got up to get more ice for her towel, and when she returned Wesker had begun to mumble deliriously under his breath. "Red… Redfield, please…"

Claire froze, her heart hammering. A moment later, however, she realized that Wesker wasn't talking to _her_. He was talking to her brother. As Wesker continued to plead with some invisible enemy, Claire caught the phrase S.T.A.R.S. several times, as well as something that made her blood run cold.

_Alex._

Claire covered her mouth with her hand, a terrible chill settling in her chest. So Alex wasn't just someone Sherry had made up. He _had_ been at Arklay, and the knowledge burned in Claire's mind like a poison. What if Wesker wasn't a traitor or a murderer, but a victim just like everybody else that night? He twitched feverishly, beads of sweat rolling down his face, and Claire anxiously returned the ice to his forehead.

Time seemed to drag out forever, and the wee hours of the morning came and went. Claire had made Wesker drink a little water, wishing that she'd been able to find some Gatorade, but any kind of fluid was better than nothing. Wesker had insisted on trying to handle the glass himself on both occasions, and only after it'd slipped from his hand did he finally let Claire assist him.

At last, just before the grey light of dawn, Wesker fell asleep and Claire was pretty sure his temperature was finally coming down. Gritty-eyed from stress and lack of sleep, she collapsed on the bed, as far away from Wesker as she could get. With a cold, sodden dishtowel wadded up in one hand, Claire shut her eyes and crashed into the welcoming oblivion of sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Whew. I've been looking forward to writing that scene for a while now, and I have to say that I'm pleased with how it turned out. Hurt/comfort scenes are always rather juicy, no? And there'll be plenty more where that came from later in the story. ****Also featured in this chapter: my first time writing from Wesker's POV. How'd you guys like all that medical jargon? I have a degree in that field, you know. It came from the prestigious University of Wikipedia. ;)**

**Anyway, I'm a little behind in my writing (probably due to obsessing over those illustrations instead of typing) so I'm afraid I'll have to go AWOL for another week. T_T **_*Flees from a rabid horde of disappointed fans and hides behind the sofa* _**Just like last time, however, I will most certainly return the weekend after next. I want to thank everybody for being so patient and understanding. I've never stuck to any one story for this long, but you guys have kept me going with your wonderful reviews and encouragement. THANK YOU! ^_^**


	11. Chapter 11: Velocity

Chapter 11: Velocity

Claire awoke from a shallow, troubled sleep and her first instinct was to check on Wesker, but the man was not in the bed beside her. She sat up, looking for him, and heard the cascade of water from inside the bathroom. Claire stared groggily at the door. The noise was too loud to be coming from the sink. Wesker must have dragged himself into the shower.

Moaning, Claire slumped back on the pillows. The bedside clock read just after 8am. The damp dishtowel was soaking her t-shirt and Claire pushed it aside, trying to find a place on the sheet that wasn't either sticky with sweat or hopelessly tangled, mounding up beneath her. The sour reek of sweat, some of it her own, rose to Claire's nostrils, mingling with the scent of Wesker's cologne. It was a heavy smell, a sick smell, and Claire rolled over, hoping for some fresher air over the side of the bed. She had a feeling she could sleep to noon and then some.

But there was still Wesker to deal with. Claire wanted to avoid a confrontation at all costs, especially since she didn't know if he'd be angry with her. Hopefully he was feeling better. Maybe that would make things easier, but after listening to him talk in his sleep – combined with everything else she knew on top of that – Claire wasn't entirely sure how to act towards him right now. She wished she could just come right out and ask him who Alex was, but upon remembering how he'd almost attacked her, Claire pushed the thought aside. Not now. Not while the night was still fresh in his mind.

She lay in bed for another ten minutes and almost drifted back to sleep, but then Wesker came out of the bathroom. He'd dressed in a dark navy-blue shirt and a pair of black trousers with knife-edge creases. Although still wet, his thick golden hair was neatly slicked back and his trademark sunglasses were once again glued to his face. Claire smirked. _That's better, _she thought drowsily.

Turning, Wesker came over to the bed and Claire tensed, looking up at him. It was too late to feign sleep now. "Get up," he ordered. "I need you to come with me."

"Why?" Claire asked, warily sitting up.

Wesker folded his arms, and it seemed to Claire that he was chewing on his words. It was clear his pride made them taste bitter. "By assisting me last night you may have inadvertently brought yourself into contact with the T-Virus," he explained. "I was infected on a massive level, and I would appreciate if you made yourself presentable rather quickly."

He phrased it like a request, but Claire knew it was anything but. Her heart gave a jolt, realizing that her earlier speculations about Ebola had not been far from the truth, and she hurriedly got out of bed, wobbling slightly as the blood rushed to her head. Going into the bathroom, she splashed her face with cold water. Thankfully, the sink was clean this morning. She wasn't sure if her stomach could handle the sight of vomit this early. She fixed her hair without brushing it and decided not to make Wesker wait by changing clothes. The ones she'd fallen asleep in would have to do. Could she really be infected? The thought was a horrifying one.

Her stomach churning with unease, Claire joined Wesker in the corridor and they took the elevator in silence, the doors swishing open to reveal a sterile corridor. Sunlight poured in though the windows, shimmering on the pattern of white and grey tiles. Claire realized she'd been here before. She remembered running down this corridor, or one that looked just like it, the day she'd sprayed Wesker in the eyes. It seemed like so long ago.

Wesker led her to a door further down the hall and opened it for her, ushering her inside. Half-expecting stasis tanks, Claire was surprised to see that the room looked no different from a normal doctor's office. Wesker gestured to the examination table. "Sit down," he told her, reaching into a cupboard.

Claire nervously hopped up to sit on the edge of the table, the papery sheet crinkling beneath her. She needed a lot more than three hours of sleep in order to function properly and would have gladly curled up on the table. To resist that urge, she glanced around the room and took note of the colored charts on the wall, all of them written in jargon she could barely understand. She yawned, watching Wesker as he prepped a syringe. Once upon a time, needles had scared the hell out of her. Not anymore. She'd seen too many of them to be bothered anymore.

"Hold out your arm," said Wesker.

She complied without hesitation, letting him wipe the inside of her arm with a cotton ball. The sharp tang of alcohol rose from it. "…Are you feeling better?" she asked, wincing a little as he poked the needle into her vein and drew a sample of blood.

Wesker didn't answer right away, but went over to the counter and placed the blood into an agitator, setting the computer to look for little T-cells munching away on her brain. As the machine went to work, Wesker turned to look at her again. "My illness has passed, if that's what you're asking," he said, though Claire knew this wasn't entirely true. Despite the sunglasses, the harsh lighting made it easy for her to see the shadows under his eyes. She nodded anyway, stifling another yawn. Wesker's condition had frightened her, but she did not tell him that.

They waited until the computer spat out a sheet of paper, indicating that the test was complete. Claire shifted nervously as Wesker picked it up. "So, I'm infected, right?" she asked, wondering what happened next. No doubt it involved more injections.

"No," Wesker rumbled, scanning the document. "Despite the fact that you were in contact with me the entire night, there's no sign of infection in your bloodstream." He gave Claire an appraising look and she forced herself not to squirm.

"How's that possible?" she asked. She was no doctor, but she knew that Wesker had been a bloody, sweat-soaked mess and it wasn't as if she'd been wearing gloves. It just didn't pay to be nice.

"…I believe it has something to do with the virus in your system," said Wesker, thinking hard. "As you may be aware, exposure to T-Veronica causes severe mental degradation, which is why Miss Ashford spent fifteen years in stasis, allowing the virus to bond with her gradually. You, on the other hand, carried the virus for three years before the first symptoms began to manifest and _that_ should have been impossible."

Claire was growing very uncomfortable under Wesker's scrutiny. "I don't get it," she said blankly.

"The best explanation I can offer is that you possess a very rare natural immunity to the T-Veronica strain, possibly because you carry a latent version of the same genetic marker I do, or perhaps because some external stimulus caused the virus to go dormant. Either way, it makes you very special, dear heart… in more ways than you know," Wesker purred, coming to stand between her knees.

Seated on the bench as she was, Claire was roughly level with him. He wasn't wearing any cologne this morning, but his natural scent seemed much stronger in its absence. To make matters worse, Claire suddenly noticed the top button of his shirt was unfastened, revealing a wedge of his hard chest. Claire stubbornly snapped her eyes back Wesker's face, ignoring the flush mounting in her cheeks. He smirked and stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, but then seemed to catch himself. His jaw hardened, he stepped back.

"By the way, you will be moving into your own room later this evening," he said, and Claire noticed that his voice had grown noticeably cooler. "Your infection has been stabilized to the point where I don't have to keep you under constant observation."

Claire was shocked. Was he really that angry that she'd helped him? But no… no, there was more to it than that. Staring at Wesker, Claire suddenly thought she understood and ice formed inside her stomach. "Look, you were really sick," she said. "Last night, I mean. You weren't even in your right mind, so about what happened… I'm not going to hold it against you."

Wesker's head snapped around. "No," he stated coldly. "I could have severely injured or even killed you, Miss Redfield, and you will not make light of it out of some grossly misplaced sense of pity."

Claire recoiled. "I… I wasn't—"

"Yes, you were," Wesker interrupted. "I'm having your clothing and the rest of your possessions moved out of my personal space and that's my final word on the matter. While I'm grateful for your assistance last night, I can no longer guarantee your safety with me."

"Why?" Claire challenged, unsure why she was sticking up for the man like this. If Wesker had managed to get hold of her last night, he would have snuffed the life out of her and she knew it. "I know what T-Virus does to people. It's not your fault!"

Wesker rushed at her and Claire gasped, certain she'd pushed him too far. His snarling face was now mere inches from hers. "You enjoy testing my limits, don't you?" he growled. "You wouldn't be so inclined to defend me if I'd actually harmed you last night, or do you like feeling powerless?"

"Do you like being an asshole?" Claire retorted, feeling defiant. " You. Were. Sick."

Wesker's lip curled. "That is no excuse," he hissed bitterly, and Claire gasped as Wesker seized her arm, dragging her off the table. "Get out," he growled, pushing her towards the exit. It was an order, not a suggestion.

Claire spent the remainder of the day holed up in the greenhouse – as if she could go anywhere else – trying to act cheerful for Sherry's benefit. In reality, however, she was confused and maybe even a little hurt. She'd lost count of how many times Wesker had grabbed her, but Claire had to admit that it had never phased into an outright attack before last night. In hindsight, she almost wondered if the edge in Wesker's voice had stemmed, not from anger, but from something closer to guilt. Of course, she was never going to find out. Wesker dropped by later that same day and in a few cold words informed her of where she'd be staying from now on.

In comparison to Wesker's king-sized suite, the room was small, lending itself to being cozy rather than grand. It contained a small couch and matching coffee table, a dresser, and a small kitchen. The bed was a double and set with a pale green quilt. Sitting on the edge of it, Claire fingered the embroidery as she glanced at a small bathroom off to the side. The room had no window.

For some reason, a feeling of misery was making itself felt in Claire's chest. A stack of books was on the nightstand, along with a note. _Thought you might like something to read! Let me know if you like these. If not, I've got more. Love Sherry. _

Claire set the books back on the table. They were all heavy textbooks on chemistry and biology, with a smattering of human anatomy. Claire knew Sherry meant well, but she'd have been much happier with a _real_ book, or even a magazine. Heck, she'd even take the newspaper. At least the crossword would be interesting. Sighing, Claire flopped back on the bed – _her_ bed, she reminded herself. She'd been sleeping on a hard couch for the past month, and yet the thought that she now had her own bed did little to lift her mood. The room smelled sterile, like laundry detergent and cleaner, not at all like the well-used scent of leather and cologne that permeated Wesker's room.

With some trepidation, Claire realized that she did not want her own room. The idea was absurd, but she didn't feel comfortable here. Four weeks ago – hell, maybe even a few days ago – she'd have jumped at the chance to get away from Wesker, but now that she had a space of her own Claire wondered why she wasn't happy with it. Gritting her teeth, she told herself to get over it, forcing away the crazy urge to apologize to Wesker even though she hadn't done anything wrong. The man had made his position on the matter quite clear.

And yet, he'd only done so out of a reluctance to endanger her. Wesker had frightened her last night, Claire was more than ready to admit that, but wasn't this a little extreme? If she didn't know any better, she'd have thought Wesker was being hard on _himself_, not because she'd been stupid enough to get in his way. Claire felt okay excusing him for being sick, but he obviously was not, no doubt because he viewed it as a humiliating weakness, a lapse that needed corrected lest it happen again. It was typically Wesker.

Draping an arm over her eyes, Claire kicked at the ruffled bed skirt, another item that would have never made its way into Wesker's abode. The maids must have tried to decorate the room special for her, or else they'd cleaned out one that had been previously occupied by a girly-girl. In either case, Claire decided that it was going to spend the rest of its existence in the dresser or under the bed. Getting up, she examined the room some more, but there was little else to see. All of her clothes had been packed into white shopping bags and left by the dresser to put away as she saw fit.

Claire was surprised to see her journal shoved into the corner of one of the bags. She picked it up and tossed it on the bed before mutely putting the rest of her things away. It was past dinnertime, but she wasn't hungry. After taking a quick shower, Claire just crawled into her bed and pulled the covers up. The mattress was too soft and she found herself missing Wesker's couch even more. Also, the room was far too quiet and Claire realized that she'd acclimated to the sound of Wesker working at his computer, though she had no idea when that annoying _clickity-clicking_had become her bedtime lullaby. She'd have to try to get a radio from Sherry, because there was no way she could sleep like this.

* * *

><p>As soon as he walked into the lab, Wesker was attacked. He was unsure what had tipped Birkin off to his condition, but true to form, he endured the younger man's vicious tongue-lashing in stoic silence. After about five minutes, Birkin caught Wesker's blank expression and angrily threw up his hands, declaring him an arrogant fool who bordered on being a masochist. "After I told you, TOLD YOU, to take the antidote!" Birkin fumed, glaring. "Jesus Christ, Albert, you could have died!"<p>

Wesker fixed him in a cool glare. "I highly doubt that," he drawled.

"Oh, really? 'Cause I'm betting dollars to donuts you were up all night sick as a dog!" Showing an unusual amount of fearlessness towards his colleague, whom he normally maintained a healthy amount of respect for, Birkin got right up in Wesker's face, poking him in the chest as if he was addressing his daughter. "You should be in bed, but no! No, you've got to come down here like the sick workaholic that you are and pretend nothing's wrong because THAT would prove that yes, you can get sick and yes, you can be hurt. And we can't have that, now can we?"

A spark of anger made itself felt in Wesker's chest. "You're out of line, Will," he gritted.

"Oooh, scary. I'm not seventeen anymore, Al. You can't just send me one of your dirty looks and I go scampering into a closet," Birkin shot back. "How did the poor girl react? Or did you lock her in the bathroom so she didn't see that you're not invincible after all?"

"She's been dealt with," said Wesker flatly.

Birkin's eyes flashed. "Let me guess, you threw one of your fits because she had the gall to try to make you feel better. She sat up with you all night, didn't she? Didn't she?" Birkin jabbed him in the chest so hard, even Wesker felt it throb. "What the hell is wrong with you, Al?"

Growling low in his throat, Wesker took a step forward, ruthlessly invading his colleague's personal space. "I'm giving you one last chance to back off," he hissed. "In case you failed to notice, I am in no mood to put up with your useless evaluations. I almost lost control last night, Will. I almost LOST CONTROL!"

Birkin's eyes widened, his face draining of the flush it had acquired during his rant. "Al… did you… did she?"

"No, but another second and I would have seriously harmed her," said Wesker, his voice strained. "You're correct in assuming that she tried to assist me, and that's precisely the danger. I'm having the staff prepare another room for her."

"Does she know?" Birkin asked, licking his lips.

Knowing that Birkin wasn't referring to the change of rooms, Wesker shook his head. "She believes it was a result of the infection and was willing to overlook my transgression because of it," he said bitterly. "I can't afford to have her around me."

There was a long and awkward moment of silence. "Al," Birkin began gently, and with the utmost caution. "Did you ever think about telling her the truth?"

Wesker's glare should have reduced him to ash. "No," he growled flatly.

Birkin sighed. It probably went against all logic, not to mention a slap in the face to Darwin's theory of self-preservation, but he genuinely cared for the man. Not that Wesker was grateful or even had the tact to notice, but that didn't change the facts. "Why not?" Birkin asked, valiantly trying to get through to him.

Wesker's lip curled in a manner Birkin could only describe as animalistic. "Because nothing will change what I've done, not your worthless advice and especially not my apologies," he snarled.

"Why don't you let Redfield make that choice for herself? Or are you afraid she'll reject you anyway?" Birkin demanded.

It happened so fast, Birkin was on the ground before he knew what happened. It felt like somebody had forced a knife into his jaw and was trying to pry it off his skull. Stars winked and popped in front of his eyes, and his ear was ringing so badly he wondered if he'd ever hear out of it again. Groaning, he picked his face off the linoleum. Wesker was standing over him and Birkin wanted to cower under the force of anger.

"Don't push your friendship with me, Birkin," he growled, his voice cold. "You will regret it."

Birkin touched his jaw. He already did regret it, but he couldn't bring himself to hate Wesker with the vehemence the man insisted he deserved. Early in his medical career, Birkin had worked a stint Raccoon City's hospital in order to gain some hands-on experience. He'd seen a lot of people come into the ER, people who been stabbed, shot, raped, or abused in some other nameless way. _They never ask for help. You know that, William. It means admitting they're hurt. Admitting they're lost. _

And that's why he never punched Wesker back. It wasn't his fault that his virus pushed his testosterone levels through the roof, making him this blatantly aggressive. At least that's what he always told himself. Wesker was easily strong enough to dislodge a man's head from his shoulders, or at least overextend (and subsequently snap) several vertebrae, so the blow had been a mere love tap compared to the bone-crushing roundhouses Birkin knew the man could deliver. He attempted to get back on his feet, the floor of the lab pitching and heaving beneath him, and felt Wesker's long fingers bite into his forearm, steadying him. Birkin swallowed, but said nothing. The rough gesture spoke for itself.

His expression hard, Wesker turned and walked out of the lab, resisting the urge to pummel a wall until the concrete and plaster were lying about his feet in complete submission. Since childhood, Wesker had avoided forming close friendships, a tendency only exacerbated by the Arklay fiasco. He'd spent five years as the captain of S.T.A.R.S. and in that time his shields had wavered. Somehow, the motley crew of retards and cretins had found their way into his heart, if he had such a thing. He'd had more than their respect. He'd had their loyalty, maybe even a form of their love.

Wesker grit his teeth so hard the bone was in danger of fracturing. He should have known better. He _did_ know better. But somehow he'd been distracted, let down his guard, and the unforgivable lapse had resulted in tragedy. Since then Wesker had retreated into a bleak, bitter world that nobody, least of all himself, could rescue him from, though God-only-knew that Birkin tried. If the virologist hadn't forcibly dragged him out to dinner at least twice a month, Wesker would literally go weeks without engaging in a civilized conversation outside of the lab.

And then Redfield had been dropped – yes, dropped – into his life.

Wesker growled, unable to deny the pull he felt towards her, urges that were both mental and physical. She'd slammed the door on his half-joking suggestion of joining Umbrella – or rather, the suggestion to join _him_ – but Wesker knew that her intelligence could easily expand into more scientific fields. Dr. Redfield, indeed. For some incomprehensible reason the thought made Wesker's stomach tighten, joining a few other parts of his anatomy. Always the gentleman, he'd only threatened her with more intimate relations, not actually carried them out, but he couldn't deny that he'd wanted to.

Stalking into the lounge, Wesker angrily poured himself a cup of coffee from the dispenser, consciously making an effort to keep his strength in check. He'd long-since discovered that his fingers could easily puncture the flimsy Styrofoam, thus sending a deluge of whatever fluid the container held all over his clothes. How dare Birkin think he could judge his actions? He'd sent Redfield away, not because he was angry with her as Birkin had mistakenly assumed, but out of a desire to protect her from the darkness he'd allowed to consume him once before, with disastrous results.

He wasn't stupid. He wouldn't let it happen again, but the fact that he'd come close had unnerved him. Despite a lingering feeling of being unwell, which was still rather strong regardless of what he'd said to Birkin, Wesker was ready to continue his investigation into the death of the IVAN prototype, but the image of blue eyes and red hair kept superimposing itself into his thoughts. Wesker growled, hating her for affecting him like this and flat out denying that it had anything to do with love rather than another checkmark on his ever-growing list of conquests.

He'd been patient with her, showing her the greenhouse, letting her speak to Sherry, all in an attempt to persuade her that his empire wasn't some venomous monster lurking beneath the world's bed, which was when a deceitful little voice reminded him that while he was trying to convince her that something wasn't evil, that something wasn't Umbrellaand the unconditional love he knew only a Redfield could give was very seductive indeed. Snarling, Wesker crushed the empty cup and tossed it in the garbage.

* * *

><p>The days dragged by. Despite the seven-year age difference, Sherry was reveling in having found a friend and often invited Claire over to watch a movie, help her study, or just sit around and talk, maybe paint their fingernails. She'd even asked the older girl for her birthday, her eyes glittering with a positively devilish air. In all probability, however, these activities were the only thing that kept Claire from going quite mad, so when somebody knocked on the door later that week, she immediately assumed it was Sherry. Stuffing a piece of toast in her mouth, Claire went to open the door.<p>

Needless to say, she was taken aback to find Wesker standing on the doorstep. "Good morning," he drawled, his voice cold and formal, like he merely using the appropriate social response instead of actually wishing her a good morning.

"Oh. Uh… good morning," Claire fumbled, taking the toast out of her mouth. Given Wesker's cold, pissed-off demeanor and the circumstances in which they'd parted last time, Claire had felt certain she wouldn't be hearing from him for a long time. Now that he was here, she wasn't sure what to make of it.

"I trust your new room has been satisfactory?" Wesker asked.

"Yeah, satisfactory. As if I like doing nothing but listening to the radio. You are aware that the reception sucks out here, right?" Claire wisely refrained from saying that she'd rather be listening to him peck at his keyboard. She didn't know what Wesker would make of such an unusual statement, and quite frankly neither did she.

"You'll adjust, I'm sure," said Wesker lazily, "but that's not what I came here to discuss with you. I've been studying your rose and would like to see if others of its kind could be produced. It could be nothing more than a happy genetic accident, one that will be impossible to recreate."

"Okay. So? What do you need me for?" Claire demanded. "I'm sure Dr. Connors would be a lot more helpful."

"Circumstances have changed, Miss Redfield. _You_ are the key to everything." Wesker took hold of her hand and pulled it forward, exposing the faint scratches on her palm. "You cut yourself while tending the rose, didn't you?"

Claire eyed him warily. "Yeah, I did," she said. "So what?"

"Your blood was the catalyst that made the hybrid possible, or did you think that an orchid and a rose would actually breed?" Wesker asked, smirking at her sudden discomfort.

Claire felt her cheeks burn and she wondered if Wesker was deliberately insulting her or if he was just being his typical, not-very empathetic self. She fixed him in glare, but for some freakishly obscure reason, she'd missed having him around to antagonize. Or maybe it was the other way around, that she missed having him antagonize _her_. The concept strayed dangerously close to an unwanted topic, one that Claire had been working hard to ignore.

"I have to get dressed," said Claire, stepping away from him.

Wesker snorted. "Typical Redfield. Up at the crack of noon."

Claire shut the door on his face, very nearly depriving him of a nose. Five minutes later, she immerged from her room wearing a red blouse and black pants, not to mention the hated lab coat. There was an entire row – seven or eight plants in total – of healthy _Black Magic_ roses waiting for them at the greenhouse, including another rare purple orchid. It was clear that while money couldn't buy health or happiness, but it sure as hell could take care of everything else.

Claire found a pair of gloves and put them on. Working as a team, though Wesker made it plain that he found no enjoyment in it, they carefully harvested a vial of pollen and used it to dust each one of the roses. One or twice, Claire realized that people were watching them from a distance, but they did so only briefly and nobody actually came over. In one fell swoop, Claire had won herself a dozen 'friends' and at least as many enemies. This had bewildered her at first, until she'd remembered that Wesker was still the chairman of Umbrella and working with him was doubtlessly considered a privilege. Even Dr. Connors had jokingly admitted to being "a wee bit jealous". Claire had tried once more to convince the woman that she was nobody special, but Dr. Connors had only smiled.

"Of course, Claire," she said, and it was clear that Claire was striving for a lost cause. The woman clearly believed she was being excessively modest, since she was obviously a scientific genius whom Wesker had brought to the island to work as a consultant, among various other reasons.

She glanced sidelong at Wesker, thankful he couldn't hear what she was thinking. Unlike before, when he'd been all smirks and smug-ass smiles, the man was all business. Not that he was rude, but his demeanor was decidedly unwelcoming and although Claire had thought she didn't care, she felt confused. It was like trying to interact with a statue made of ice. Cold, bitter, _jagged_ ice.

At that moment, Wesker set the brush he'd been using aside and turned to her. Taking envelope from his coat pocket, he unwrapped it to reveal a scalpel. Claire swallowed, her thoughts evaporating as she eyed the wicked instrument. "You're not seriously going to use that on me, are you?" she asked.

"Don't be nervous," said Wesker, though his cool voice did little to reassure her. "The incision will be very small, I assure you."

Not quite sure if she believed him, Claire stepped closer and rolled up her sleeve, offering him her arm. He shook his head and, pinching the finger of her glove, pulled it off her hand. Claire screwed up her face, but the scalpel was so sharp there was barely any pain at all. A fat drop of blood welled up and began to roll into her palm.

"After you, Miss Redfield," said Wesker, gesturing to the roses.

Unsure on what exactly she was supposedly to do, Claire let a tiny amount of her blood drip on each of the roses in turn, sometimes on their leaves, sometimes on their thorns. Looking at the crimson liquid, she thought about the virus in her body. What was it doing to her on the inside? If she stopping taking her shots, would the infection come back? Or was it settling down inside her, becoming a part of her like Wesker's virus had with him? After all, it had supposedly been inside her for years without her knowledge. Frowning, Claire noticed that the cut on her hand had begun to clot. She reached up to give it a squeeze, but Wesker stopped her.

"I believe that's sufficient," he said, offering her a Band-Aid as Claire wiped off with a tissue. "Do you think it'll work?" she asked, nodding towards the roses. These ones were healthy, without any trace of disease. Maybe her blood only worked if they were sick.

Wesker shrugged. "There's no way to tell," he said. "I'll check again in a few days."

Claire stared at the roses for a minute, feeling a small thrill of excitement. _I want it to work_, she realized, though she was a little unsure why. The whole thing stank of a typical Umbrella-esque experiment, one that she should be avoiding like the plague, and yet Claire knew that she'd be checking the roses for the next few days, waiting for those breathtaking ebony-red blooms. _Nightwish_, she thought proudly, tasting the name. _My Nightwish._

Packing up his scalpel, Wesker turned to leave. No smug farewell, no parting comment, and Claire's shoulders slumped, unsure why she felt a little hurt. "You really don't have to be so pissed-off, you know," she mumbled to his back.

Wesker stopped, turning to look at her. "What gives you the impression that I'm angry with you?" he asked coolly and Claire swallowed. She hadn't thought his hearing was _that_ good.

"Look, I know you're still sore about the whole T-Virus thing, but I," she flushed, murmuring the next words more to herself than Wesker, "I liked it better when you were nice."

Wesker stiffened imperceptibly. "What?" he demanded.

Claire blanched and hung her head, blushing furiously. "Nothing," she said hastily.

"No," said Wesker, taking a step towards her. "I want to hear what you said, and I want you to say it to my face. Are you saying that you miss my attention?"

"No," Claire hissed, sensing the hidden trap. "I just… I just meant…"

What _did_ she mean? Claire wished desperately to vanish, but unfortunately it didn't work. Wesker continued to favor her with an intensely critical stare and she shifted her feet, her mouth working soundlessly. Not saying anything was no longer an option and neither was trying to leave the greenhouse, since Wesker was blocking the only way to the door. Taking a deep breath, Claire forced it out in a humiliated rush:

"I liked it better when you… when you treated me like dear heart," she stumbled over the nickname, her cheeks flaming, "not Miss Redfield."

A heavy silence fell between them. "Is that so?" Wesker asked, his voice resonating on a perilously low octave. "I have already expressed my concerns to you, yet you continue to brush them aside. May I remind you that if you play with fire, you will eventually get burned?"

_He's talking about himself, isn't he?_ _Why's he so damn hard on himself? Oh. Right. I seen him when he was weak, when he was vulnerable, and gods aren't supposed to be vulnerable, now are they? The stuck-up, egotistical prick needs professional help. _

"I'll wear fire-proof gloves," Claire grumbled in spite of herself, looking anywhere but Wesker, and was surprised when he chuckled. She snapped her gaze back to his face. A hint of a smirk, the first she'd seen all day, was coiled around his thin lips. "Very well," he said quietly. "If that's the way you want things. I should warn you, though. Once I make my decision, I will not back down… dear heart."

Shivers racked Claire's skin at the predatory edge to Wesker's words, and yet his deep voice remained mellow, in direct contrast to the threat he'd just uttered. Or maybe it was more like a warning. Claire bit her lip, unsure whether to be relieved by this or downright scared. It would have been better if she'd just kept her big mouth shut. Since when had the way Wesker treated her gotten so high on her list of concerns?

"Whatever makes your boat float," she said. "Now would you mind getting out of my way? I've got stuff to do."

Wesker grinned. "Ask me nicely," he purred.

Claire flashed him a vicious glare. How dare he use that stupid line again? "Would you please get out of my way before I grab a shovel and beat you to death with it?" she asked, her voice like poisoned honey.

What happened next took Claire totally by surprise. Wesker actually _laughed_, his teeth flashing in an unnervingly shark-like grin. For a startled minute, Claire was sure he actually thought it was _funny_, not that he was mocking her like he usually did. She frowned and squared her shoulders, brushing past him as roughly as she could. Disconcertingly, however, his laughter only grew louder.

Claire went back to her room for a few hours, scribbling the day's events in her journal, before finally heading back out to meet Sherry. They were going out to lunch down on the island again, something Claire had been looking forward to all week, and her uncertainties concerning Wesker were not going to ruin it. She really wanted to explore the island some more, so after numerous slices of pizza and several delicious cappuccinos, the girls took a walk down to the shoreline.

The beach was rocky and strewn with pebbles, but there was just enough thick brown sand for Claire to take her shoes off. After a moment's indecision, Sherry followed suit. They walked a little ways down the shore to where a jagged finger of rock jutted out into the ocean. Claire picked up a rounded stone, weighed it in her palm, then sent it bouncing across the tide. Three… four… no, five skips! Sherry grinned appreciatively.

"You should've seen my dad," said Claire, throwing another one. "He could do seven or eight at least. Here, you try."

Sherry picked up a rock and hurled it as hard, splashing the both of them with a sizable amount of water. Claire laughed at Sherry's pout. "Use your wrist," she said, handing the younger girl another stone. "And get down low. Yeah, that's it!"

After a while, they sat down in the sand to watch the ocean, dipping their feet into the foamy streams left behind by the tide. Having been raised by two preeminent scientists, not to mention the amount of school she currently had to uphold, Claire got the feeling that Sherry didn't get to do this often. Not that she herself had any more experience. What with college, work, fighting zombies, and getting abducted by the living, breathing version of Jonny Bravo – not to mention that she and her brother lived in landlocked Utah – Claire didn't get to go to the ocean much either. Digging her fingers into the sand, she tipped her head back with a sigh, fighting a snigger as Sherry tried to copy her movements.

_It's really not so bad here,_ Claire thought, looking back up at the island. Far above on the mound, the citadel gleamed in the sunlight. Once she viewed it as an ostentations prison and now… well, now she wasn't so sure.

Roughly a week later, Wesker took a sample from each of the new roses and tested them for the presence of T-Veronica. As he'd hoped, the virus had already begun to bond with the plant's DNA. Despite their perfect health only a few days ago the roses had begun to loose their blooms, which confirmed that the process was well underway. Wesker was 90% sure that within another week, the plants would begin to display the unusual flowers indicative of their parentage. This meant that the project he and Birkin had been working on could proceed without further hindrance, as the last obstacle in their path had been cleared away.

"We've done it, Will. After all these years… all our research… we finally have it."

"Are you going to tell Redfield?"

Wesker smiled darkly. "Of course," he purred. As the treacherous little voice inside him had predicted – and as Claire herself had so foolishly ensured – he couldn't stay away from her for long. Her scent swirled in his mind, taunting him like blood would taunt a shark. _In fact, I'm looking forward to it…_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Hello, again! This chapter was one of the hardest for me to write and don't ask me why. I kinda wanted to drag Wesker's attitude out for a little longer than one chapter, but in the end I didn't have enough ideas to pull it off, so I hope the brief hostility between him and Claire didn't come off as being resolved too fast. He's starting to love and desire her in more ways than one, but for your own safety, don't ask him to confirm it. He'll just rip your head off and stuff it someplace where the sun don't shine. What is he looking forward to telling his dear heart?**

**As it's been said, we writers do love them cliffhangers. *evil chuckle* ;)**


	12. Chapter 12: Crimson Masquerade, Pt 1

Chapter 12: Crimson Masquerade. Pt. 1

Lying on her stomach with a pillow shoved under her chest for support, Claire was busily writing in her journal. The small notebook was growing dog-eared and worn, and smelled faintly like ink. Post-It notes in nearly every color of the rainbow were stuck to the pages, sometimes poking out like colorful little bookmarks.

_Wesker's Castle (aka, Mont St. Michel)_

_It's been almost two months since I got here, and this'll be the seven-millionth time I've mentioned my rose in just this past week alone. Wesker came by a few days ago and we tried to make some more of them, but I'm still not sure if it worked. They've lost all of their flowers, but I don't know if that's good or bad (probably bad) and Wesker hasn't been around long enough for me to ask. I know he's in a good mood, though. Not that he shows it. At least not to me, anyway. _

_We kissed and made up—_

Claire made a face and hastily scratched out the words.

_We settled our disagreement_ _in the greenhouse last week (why I did that, I'll never know) but I really haven't seen him since. I can't tell if he's really busy or just avoiding me, and I can't figure out why I care, either. I wish I knew what to think of him. I really do! After I heard him mumbling about Alex, I've been thinking about him a lot. Wesker, I mean. I want to just ask him about what really happened, but_

A knock at the door jarred Claire from her thoughts. Swinging her feet around and putting them on the floor, she got off the bed and went over to open it, taken aback to discover it was Wesker. It was if she'd conjured him up just by thinking about him and Claire resisted the urge to furtively glance down the corridor, certain that she'd spot Rod Serling leaning against the wall with his customary cigarette.

"I trust I'm not interrupting anything?" Wesker asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"No," Claire fumbled, jerking her eyes back to his face. "I was just thinking about you."

"Oh? And what exactly was I doing in your thoughts, dear heart?" Wesker's eyebrow seemed to have suddenly gained the ability to hoist the corner of his mouth, because that's exactly what it was doing.

"No, that's not—" Claire started to vehemently disabuse Wesker of whatever dirty notions had entered his brain when she realized that saying anything would only dig her grave deeper. She favored him with a murderous frown, heat blooming on her cheeks. "What do you want?" she demanded, changing the topic.

Wesker smirked, the diabolical bastard. "I thought you'd like to know that our experiment worked," he said. "Your blood took and the roses are well on their way to becoming fully-fledged hybrids. Congratulations."

Claire's indignation evaporated on the spot. "Really? That's great!" She froze, realizing that such blatant excitement over Umbrella's latest triumph was probably not a good thing, least of all for Wesker's ego. "I mean, I'm glad it worked… for you I mean," she amended, feeling her face glow even hotter. Damn it, why was nothing coming out right today?

Wesker chuckled. "I'm glad to hear that," he said, "but that's not the only thing I came to discuss with you. Umbrella is about to release a new product and the unveiling is scheduled to happen tonight. Or course, I'll be leading the conference," he said, unconscious arrogance in his voice.

"Ergo, some new wonder drug with a big fancy name? Channel 7 will want an interview!" Claire deadpanned, not quite sure where Wesker was going with this. Why on earth would she care what he had planned for the evening?

Wesker's smile widened. "Would you like to come, dear heart? That _is_ what I'm asking, after all."

Of all the shocking, off-the-wall questions Wesker could have asked, that one took the cake. Claire gawked at him with a mixture of astonishment and suspicion. "And just why would you want me to come?" she demanded as soon as she found her voice. "What kind of screwed-up game are you playing now?"

Wesker cocked his head at her. "Dear heart, you wound me," he laughed. "I merely assumed you would enjoy the change in scenery."

Claire stared at him for a beat. She knew next to nothing about fancy corporate parties, but she was pretty sure that showing up in jeans and a sweater would be frowned upon. "I haven't got anything nice to wear," she said, trying to cut him off at the pass, so to speak. Surely Wesker would see the problem with her wardrobe and decide that he didn't want to be seen with her after all, thus relieving her of having to make the choice for herself. She really didn't want to think about going with Wesker, because then she'd have to actually examine her current set of feelings towards him.

Disconcertingly, however, Wesker merely waved his hand. "I foresee no problems with your wardrobe," he said.

Claire suddenly realized that he'd already planned ahead. She frowned at Wesker, trying to discern his ulterior motive, but his smug expression gave nothing away. That alone triggered all kinds of alarm bells, but Claire was deeply compelled to accept his offer even though she was probably traipsing headfirst into a well-laid trap. She gulped, caught in a terrible tug of war as the two halves of her mind – or heart, which one was it really? – went to war over the matter. Wesker ran his finger down the side of her face, leaving a trail of heat.

"You can always tell me your decision later," he offered.

With that, the last of Claire's stubborn resolve wore away. It was the petting that had done it, the manipulative bastard. But of course, Claire was just in it for the chance to escape. She'd be in a crowd of people, so there'd be ample chances to break away from Wesker. He couldn't try to choke her in public or just toss her over his shoulder. Yeah, that was it. _That_ was why she was going to accept.

"No, that's okay. I'll come," Claire told him, but the note in her voice betrayed her real thoughts on the matter. Stupid, treacherous brain. It was far too easily influenced by the flood of hormones triggered by Wesker's touch… and voice… and smell. _Damn it, Claire. Get away from him. Get away from him NOW!_

Claire stepped back, probably a bit too quickly. Wesker didn't seem to notice. "I'll send somebody to assist you around 8:00 this evening," he said, turning to go. "Kindly be in your room at that time, dear heart. I don't want to be late."

_Yes, go. So long, prick!_ Claire glowered at his retreating back, then shut the door and leaned her back against it, trying to sort through the whirling mass of her thoughts. A feeling of anxiety – Claire refused to use the word _excitement_ – settled deep in her stomach and as the day dragged on, it was exactly like being a kid again and counting those agonizing minutes to Christmas morning, or a trip to the carnival. At 7:15, Claire was biting a hangnail and trying to come up with a way to get out of her predicament. She could always tell Wesker she was having _female_ problems, but she wasn't ready to stoop to that level just yet.

At 7:30 she was in the shower nervously trying to wash her hair, figuring she might as well be clean for her trip to the executioner's block. Wrapping her hair in a towel, she made herself a cup of tea and wished for an outbreak of T-Virus or a brain aneurysm, anything to save her from attending Wesker's so-called party. There was a knock at the door and Claire's heart leapt into her throat. "Uh… come in," she managed, tearing her hair out of the towel.

A tall Asian woman came into the room. Her beauty was exotic and sensual in a way most supermodels would sell what little remained of their souls to achieve. She was wearing a short black dress with a pattern of sequined red butterflies spilling diagonally from her left shoulder to her right hip. They flashed and glittered as she walked, her high heels clacking on the floor. Standing in sweats with her wet hair starting to soak the back of her shirt, Claire felt like a gangly teenager by comparison. She resisted the crazy urge to crawl under the bed.

"And you must be Claire."

Claire forced a smile. "Yeah, that's me," she managed. In a sudden flash of recognition, she realized that she'd seen this woman from a distance at least once during her stay on the island. "Sorry, but, uh… who are you?" she asked, thoroughly embarrassed.

The woman smiled. "I'm Ada," she said, her dark eyes gleaming with— what exactly? Amusement? Curiosity? She crossed the room with the grace of a dancer, her silky black hair bobbing with every step. "I heard you're going to a party tonight."

Claire blanched. "Yeah, I guess," she muttered. So this was the woman Leon had told her about, Umbrella's private Mata Hari. No wonder Leon was still infatuated with her.

Oblivious to her thoughts, Ada's perfect red lips curved upwards. "Nervous?" she asked, a teasing note in her voice.

_You have no freaking idea,_ thought Claire, her thoughts going to Wesker.

"Well, don't be. We're going to doll you up so nice, you won't even recognize yourself," said Ada, and for the first time Claire noticed she was carrying a plastic shopping bag. She eyed it suspiciously as Ada put it on the bed and reached inside. A moment later Claire realized that she was WAY over her head.

Ada didn't just pull out one dress. She pulled out _three_, carefully spreading them out of the bed. Claire's jaw unhinged as she looked them over. Two black, one red, and all of them cut to reveal a lot of skin. _Her_ skin. Claire gulped, thinking about Wesker's predatory smirks, and lost her nerve right there. She took a deep breath, but Ada beat her to it. "So, which one do you like? Or would you like to try them all on?" she asked.

There was nothing else for it. Claire couldn't think of a way to escape without either becoming extremely rude or running screaming from the room. She self-consciously undressed and stood in her underwear as Ada worked the black cocktail dress over her head. Claire turned to look at herself in the mirror. _Oh, no. No, no._

The dress itself wouldn't have been so bad if not for that provocative slit running the length of one side, revealing one of her legs. Claire had an image of Wesker's fingers gliding along the length of her thigh and she hastily started tugging the dress off. "Too tight," she lied and as Ada carefully folded the dress and put it away, Claire selected the red one to try on next. Even lying on the bed, Claire could tell that the other black one was cut way too low in the front. Looking that sexy in front of Wesker was the last plan on her agenda.

As Claire slipped into the red gown, however, she couldn't help letting out a soft gasp of delight. The dress was sleeveless and open in the back, exposing the creamy expanse of her back and dropping low enough to hint at the soft mound of her derriere. Claire swallowed, running her hands against the gown. The deep red silk felt expensive and it made her uncomfortable just being in it. Yet the dress was undoubtedly very beautiful, alluring in a very physical sort of way, as if the gown straddled the border between modest and provocative

"Mmm. It looks _gorgeous_ on you," said Ada.

Claire turned slightly in front of the mirror, watching the gown shimmer in the light. "It does, doesn't it?" she murmured, feeling strange, but she agreed to wear it anyway. Ada seemed pleased with her choice and produced a pair of matching red heels. Claire was relieved to find that they fit her well and weren't too high. Thank God for small miracles.

"Sit down," said Ada, patting the bed. "Let's dry your hair and put it up."

Claire grudgingly sat down, watching as Ada procured a small hairdryer and several combs from the shopping bag, leaving her to wonder what else the woman had stashed in there. A blast of hot air rushed over the back of her neck and Claire nervously shut her eyes, letting Ada work without interrupting her. The Asian woman clearly had a lot of experience with this sort of thing and Claire couldn't say she was surprised. Butterflies churned inside her stomach, a sensation only heightened when Ada finished with her hair and brought out the makeup.

Even though she was pretty, Claire had never been overly concerned with her appearance. Jeans and a blouse were as dressy as she got, and she never wore any makeup except for very special occasions. As Ada rapidly pumped the mascara brush up and down, coming at her with a very predatory air, Claire shrank back a little.

"Is that really necessary?" she begged. She was already uncomfortable enough.

Ada looked at her as though she'd gone mad. "Oh, come on. I'm not going to bite, I promise," she said, bending forward until she had Claire at her mercy, a helpless Barbie doll. Claire forced herself to put up with the mascara, but flat out refused to put lipstick on. To her intense relief, however, Ada agreed, but only if Claire used lip-gloss instead. Looking at the dark red tube of lipstick versus a mostly clear, pinkish gloss, it was an offer Claire couldn't refuse. Now more than ever, she wished she'd never taken Wesker up on his offer.

At last, and only after Claire threatened to take off her shoe and club Ada to death with it, the Asian woman finally relented. Claire got up to survey herself in the mirror and gasped. She didn't know the woman staring back at her, but she was absolutely _beautiful_, her inferno-colored red hair knotted elegantly at the back of her head, blue eyes accentuated by dark, glossy lashes. The effect was striking but not overdone, simple but not underplayed. Filled with a kind of electric shock, Claire reached up to stroke the gown and the woman in the mirror did the same, but it didn't dispel her uncertainty. In fact, it only made it worse and something on her face must have shown it.

Over her shoulder, the satisfied grin on Ada's face began to fade. Suddenly, Claire realized that the Asian woman was touching her arm. "What's bothering you, Claire?" she asked. "You don't want to go, do you?"

Her tone was so beguiling that, against her better judgment, Claire found herself answering despite the fact that she was talking to a near total stranger. "It's complicated," she muttered. "For one, I've not used to dressing up like this or going to fancy parties. For two, I don't know if it's a good idea going with him. Wesker, I mean."

Understanding suddenly gleamed in Ada's dark, slanted eyes. "You're afraid of him, aren't you?" she asked, startling Claire with the how quickly she'd seen through to the heart of the matter.

"You'd have to be insane not to be," said Claire, not sure what else to say.

"True, but what do you really think about him?" Ada asked. "Do you love him?"

Claire scowled. "No," she said quickly, vehemently.

"Do you hate him then?"

Claire opened her mouth, but nothing came out. "I… I don't know," she said after a minute, and it was the God-honest truth. The Wesker she'd been forced to interact with this past month was nothing like the cruel, cold-hearted bastard she'd expected him to be. No, she didn't love him, but she'd didn't think she hated him anymore, either. Ada sat down on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs with a provocative grace Claire had a feeling would drive most men wild.

"Then I think you should go," said Ada simply. "He loves to play games with people, but you're more lucky than you realize."

"Yeah, how so?" Claire demanded.

"I've known him for a long time now and he's never asked _me_ to go to parties with him, not unless he needed me to sneak away halfway through the night and hack some unlucky CEO's computer," said Ada, but not bitterly, In fact, she seemed to view it as amusing, as if she'd long since resigned herself to the fact. Claire gawked at her. With her exotic good looks and easy confidence, Claire couldn't picture Ada having trouble finding a lover, but Wesker had never given her _that_ kind of attention, something Claire realized that she'd actually been expecting.

_So he invited me when he could have just gone alone. Why?_ Claire swallowed, the butterflies in her stomach redoubling their efforts to flutter up into her mouth. Ada smiled, knowing that Claire had gotten the point, and stood up to dig through the shopping bag again. Claire stood frozen as the woman handed her a soft black overcoat and red satin clutch.

"Here, you're going to need these," she said. "You might have people sticking cameras in your face and all that, so unless you really know how to answer without embarrassing yourself or the chairman, the phrase "No comment" is going to be your best friend tonight. Oh, and try to have fun, all right?"

Claire mouth moved soundlessly as Ada gathered up her things and drifted out of the room. How the hell was she supposed to have any kind of fun after a comment like that? She heard a man's voice just down the corridor – Ada had stopped to talk to someone – and Claire hastily shrugged into the coat. A moment later, Wesker came into the room and Claire stared at him in surprise. Wesker was dressed in an expensive dinner jacket and Claire got the feeling that the garment had been tailored especially for him, accentuating the lean, angular lines of his body. A glint caught her eye and she noticed he wore a small enameled version of the Umbrella logo pinned to his lapel.

Claire gulped, her mind blank of anything to say. Overtop everything else, Wesker was also wearing a long leather coat, the collar turned up to frame his sharp chin, and Claire had always had a perilous weakness for leather. She shook herself, turning her attention to what Wesker was taking out of his pocket. "Take these," he said, handing her two syringes. "If you start feeling ill, you'll let me know immediately. Do I make myself clear?"

Claire nodded and slipped the syringes into her handbag. Now she knew why Ada had given her the little purse. Was she really in that much danger of relapsing, or was Wesker just being overly cautious?

Wesker held out his hand. "Now if you're ready, it's time we were off," he purred.

Claire went to him as though she was asleep, painstaking trying to walk straight in high heels. Wesker escorted her through the facility and up a narrow flight of stairs she'd never been to before. The helipad was dark and wet, and nearby lights reflected on the ground in dappled splotches. A large black chopper sat idling its engine, rotor blades turning lazily in the cold night air. A small strobe light illuminated the ubiquitous Umbrella logo painted on the tail. Turning her head to look towards the horizon and the dark ocean far below, Claire forget to concentrate on walking and stumbled in her heels.

At once, Wesker's arm deftly encircled around her waist and pulled her close. "Careful, dear heart."

Hastily regaining her footing, Claire's senses were suddenly overwhelmed by Wesker's close proximity— the unforgettable smell of leather, that alluring cologne he always wore, the solid feeling of his arm around her waist. Hoping the darkness would conceal the blood rushing to her face, Claire slid into the chopper. Seconds after Wesker had closed the door, she felt the engine gun to full and the deep throbbing of the rotors filled her ears. Within moments they were flying over the dark Atlantic, leaving Mont St. Michel behind, but Claire knew that she hadn't escaped the monster.

It was in the helicopter with her. 

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Sorry, folks. I'm going to have to cut things short here. It was originally designed to be part of one whole chapter, but by the time I'd finished it was encroaching on 9,000 words, far too much for one update, and this was the only good stopping point. Don't worry, though. You'll get the lion's share of this chapter next week! **

****Oh, and I've made another illustration!****

**THANK YOU for all your reviews on the last chapter! ****^_^**


	13. Chapter 13: Crimson Masquerade, Pt 2

Chapter 13: Crimson Masquerade. Pt. 2

Somehow, the large wisteria-covered mansion perfectly fit Claire's idea of France, with sweeping front steps and an enormous rose garden that would have put Wesker's botanical lab to shame. Copious beds of fading summer growth would have given everything a somber appearance but for the golden light spilling out of the mansion's huge windows. As the helicopter swept overhead, Claire noticed an assembly of pricy vehicles – the kind owned by people with more money than brains – parked in the driveway.

They landed on the mansion's large, reinforced roof and disembarked. Claire said nothing when Wesker's arm slid around her waist again. If he kept her from breaking her neck in these heels, she could tolerate his attentions. Together, they descended into the mansion and shed their coats in the entrance hall. Claire's felt Wesker's gaze sweeping her up and down, and she was sure he wasn't eyeballing the gown. It was almost as if his dangerous, animalistic eyes were slowly undressing her where she stood.

She threw him a dirty look. "Keep looking and you'll be wearing your ass for a hat," she threatened. Why, oh, why had she agreed to this insanity?

Wesker smirked, chuckling to himself as he hung up his coat. "Shall we?"

Claire eyed him for a minute, then nervously placed her hand on his proffered forearm. Numbly, as if she was a bystander in her own body, she allowed Wesker to steer her into the glow of the next room. The dull roar of conversation that had filled the chamber immediately dropped to a murmur. Claire felt hundreds of eyes swivel in their direction. There had to be at least fifty people in here, all of them dressed in Armani suits or expensive gowns.

By the looks Wesker was receiving, most people knew who he was. Claire guessed the crowd was comprised entirely of billionaires and company chairmen looking to dance their way into Wesker's spotlight. Her guess was proved right, for just then a tall, well-dressed man approached them. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed, and steely grey eyes gleamed coldly above his prominent Roman nose.

"It's nice to see you again, Mr. Wesker," he said, his voice rich and cultured with an indeterminate accent, though something told Claire it was probably Spanish or Italian. "The night just wouldn't be complete without you."

Wesker politely shook the man's hand. "Gionne," he acknowledge coolly.

The man's gaze fell on Claire next. "And who's the lovely lady?"

Claire opened her mouth to fumble an answer, but Wesker spared her the trouble. When her name was mentioned, Gionne's eyes narrowed, glittering under his heavy black lashes. Claire was shocked when he took hold of her hand. "It's an honor, Miss Redfield," he said, kissing her knuckles. Something glittered on the lapel of his suit. It was an angular bronze pin that reminded Claire of a stick bug, or some other multi-legged creature.

"Same here," she stammered, remembering her manners.

Gionne straightened, making a sweeping gesture with his hand. "Please, may I introduce my daughter, Excella?"

Gionne indicated a tall woman standing off to his right, a champagne flute held delicately in one flawlessly manicured hand. She was older than Claire, late twenties perhaps, and her tight silk dress ended several inches above the knee, showing off her smooth bronze legs. Not that this was only flesh she was putting on display, since the plunging neckline of her dress left very little to the imagination.

"Pleased to meet you," said Excella, inclining her head at Wesker. Claire watched the woman's dark eyes sweep him up and down, lingering on his crotch, and Claire had to flush. Excella had the same rich, haughty accent as her father and it was clear by the way she dressed she was used to flaunting her assets, money notwithstanding. Claire straightened self-consciously as Excella switched her attention to her. No doubt she had something in her teeth.

"Well, this is the first time I've heard of you," Excella sniffed, sizing her up.

"I haven't been with Wesker long," Claire said.

"Hmpf. You must be quite a valuable asset, especially if you're here instead of in the footnotes," said Excella, her eyes glittering like hard stones. "Let's see, the company you transferred from would be…?"

"I didn't transfer from any company," said Claire, a note of panic rising in her chest. Too late, she realized how her earlier statement must have sounded. No wonder Excella was looking at her like a jealous rival. While she could only wonder at Wesker's magnificence, the woman clearly believed Claire had already experienced it. God in Heaven, why did everybody assume she was sleeping with the man? Claire determinedly kept Excella's gaze, ignoring the increasing warmth in her cheeks.

"Where _did_ you come from, then? A private firm? You must have a lengthy resume', considering the work you've already done for the Umbrella Corporation," said Excella.

_What the hell is she talking about?_ _How could she know about the rose?_

"Excella, darling, must you badger our hosts?" Gionne said, laughing. "Please excuse my daughter. She's just like her mother, wanting to know everything about everyone." He clicked his fingers, summoning a waiter with a tray of hors d'oeuvres. "Would you like something, Mr. Wesker? Miss Redfield?"

"No, thank you," said Wesker, waving the caviar away.

Claire numbly shook her head.

"Well, do make sure to try some later, then," said Gionne and after few words of parting, he drifted away into the party.

Glaring suspiciously at Claire, Excella sauntered after her father, stiletto heels clicking. Claire let out the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding as Wesker moved away in the opposite direction. "Am I supposed to know who that man was?" she demanded in a whisper.

"His name's Donovan Gionne," said Wesker softly. "He's the current head of Tricell, another member of the Global Pharmaceutical Consolidate. His wife's grandfather was in Umbrella's inner circle, but the family fell out with Spencer a long time ago. Does that answer your question?"

_Now he's giving me a lesson in politics. What did I get myself into? _

Several other notable celebrities pressed in to take Gionne's place. All of their questions and comments seemed innocuous enough, but it was obvious that all them wanted to know what Wesker's agenda was. And although Wesker was polite to all of them, it was clear where the power lay. In a flash, Claire suddenly realized she was on the arm of one of the most influential men in the world. The idea was both horrifying and, in some dark way, intensely satisfying. The realization took her by surprise, as she'd never put any stock in the glitzy, scheming world of corporations. Claire forced the thought from her mind as she politely shook hands with an old man whose fingers were cluttered with rings.

"Congratulations on your new breakthrough, Mr. Wesker." This came from a severe woman in a purple gown. She wore so much makeup Claire wondered what she really looked like under it. "We'd love to know how you do it."

"I'm sure you would," said Wesker placidly, but the woman's eyes narrowed.

Claire abruptly felt swamped by the undercurrent of political tension in the room and she determinedly turned her attention to the décor. The dark wooden floor had been polished to a mirror-like sheen, glowing in the soft light of a huge frosted glass chandelier. There was a buffet table against the far wall, set with gleaming silver dishes and iridescent glass. No doubt the menu consisted entirely of shrimp and caviar, and all manners of ridiculously expensive nibbles. Large vases of roses that would not have looked out of place on the funeral bier of a dead empress were scattered around the parlor, their heavy fragrance mingling with the aroma of expensive silk and leather. Claire noticed that all the roses were either red or white, and the symbolism was not lost on her.

Eventually, however, Claire realized that the woman in the purple dress had moved on and an attractive man in a light oatmeal-colored suit had taken her place. Claire didn't catch his name, but he spoke with a smooth British accent, his silver hair shimmering in the light. "Are you enjoying yourself tonight?" he asked, shifting his interest to Claire.

Claire hesitated. "I'm not sure yet," she said with brutal honesty.

The man laughed, and Claire noticed Wesker smirk out of the corner of her eye. "Beauty, intelligence, and a little bit of modesty? Positively brilliant," he observed, making a subtle, all-encompassing gesture with his champagne glass. The way his eyes sparkled behind his glasses reminded Claire of ice, though not in a cold or aloof sort of way. And while first impressions were risky, especially here, she was pretty sure she liked him. There was a certain charm about him that was decidedly absent from most of the room. Except for Wesker, of course. The blond had a very dangerous kind of charisma, and it was strong enough to enchant cobras into licking his fingers, Claire reflected dryly.

They talked for a while, but the British man excused himself in due course. The night wore on and Claire was just getting comfortable in her own skin when Wesker plucked a crystal flute from a nearby table and held it out to her. "Champagne, dear heart?"

Claire eyed the glass suspiciously as she took it. _I'll just take a sip. I can't afford to get drunk. _The beverage was ice cold, dry, and bubbly enough to make Claire's nose tickle. She took another sip, this one a little deeper than the first, then lowered the pricy drink. "So," she began, gesturing at the aristocratic party crowd. "What is this new magic drug, anyway?"

Wesker smiled in slow, perilous sort of way. "You'll know soon enough," he said, putting his hand in the small of her back. Feeling the heat of his hand against her bare skin, Claire gasped slightly, but she knew better than to try to pull away. Wesker's hand remained there for the next ten minutes or so as he guided them back through the party, working the crowd. Claire discovered that if she just told people she was glad to meet them – and if she occasionally made a favorable comment on their diamond jewelry – they would smile, nod, and immediately appear much more relaxed towards her. Thankfully, Wesker's presence kept most of the spotlight directed away from her, for which Claire was grateful.

Then, just as the false pleasantries were starting to grate on her nerves, a soft chime echoed through the parlor. A man's voice rose above the murmur of conversation. "Ladies and gentlemen, if I could just direct your attention, the conference is about to begin…"

Wesker's touch on her back grew firm, steering her through the crowd. Through the mass of people, Claire suddenly noticed that a table and podium had been erected against the back wall of the room, for which heavy, artfully draped curtains provided a backdrop. A glossy plaque bearing the Umbrella archetype adorned the front of the podium. Claire smirked wryly. "Ready for your speech?" she asked, never missing an opportunity to taunt Wesker.

Wesker smirked at her. "Just remember to smile, dear heart," he said, leaving her in the crowd. Up at the podium, he seated himself at the table directly to its right. As the crowd gathered, Gionne and the silver-haired gentleman Claire had spoken to earlier took their seats as well. She noticed little bronze plaques had been set in front of them, each one bearing the name of the company they were representing. _Umbrella… Tricell… WilPharma… _

A tall, stately man stepped up the podium. The microphone gave a soft whine. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he said, flashing a winning smile. "We have come together tonight to celebrate an important event, possibly the greatest medical breakthrough in recorded history."

A few people exchanged dubious murmurs, but everybody was looking forward expectantly. The man at the podium continued, "In the years since Sir Spencer's passing, the Umbrella Corporation has labored to struggle out from beneath the infamous shadow of its former chairman, an effort bravely spearheaded by Mr. Wesker since his appointment in the winter of 1999, and there can be no doubt that his Business truly is Life Itself."

Claire suppressed a snort, but joined the crowd in obligatory applause. Up at the table, Gionne looked bored and impatient, furtively tapping his finger on the table. "Therefore," the speaker continued, "it is only proper that I allow him to begin tonight's conference. Please…" he stepped the side, graciously inviting Wesker to the podium.

Wesker stood smoothly, a sleek black viper rising from its coils, and took the speaker's place, lightly curling his fingers around the edges of the podium. Looking at him, Claire couldn't help but feel that while such open talks were not Wesker's favorite method of demonstrating his power, he was most certainly good at it. He was once a police captain – the best of the best, she thought ruefully – so talking about corporate affairs couldn't possibly be more difficult than talking about a hostage situation or a murder.

"It's been said that superior intelligence breeds superior ambition," said Wesker, opening his statement with his typical self-righteous arrogance, though Claire wondered if anyone else even noticed. "The Umbrella Corporation has always been the world leader in health care, protecting and sustaining millions of people around the world. With global hospitals and a response team ready to deploy anywhere in the world, my staff and I have strived to overcome the worst diseases known to humanity. Tonight, I believe that goal may now be within reach."

Caught by Wesker's dangerously hypnotic voice, like a flock of birds being charmed by a snake, nobody moved or spoke. A faint draft caused the overhead chandelier to tinkle quietly. "A short time ago, a new species of rose was created within the walls of Mont St. Michel, the Umbrella Corporation's main headquarters," said Wesker, the beginnings of dangerous smile curving the corners of his mouth. Claire's world narrowed, going dark around the edges, until the only thing she was aware of was Wesker and the sound her own heartbeat thumping in her ears.

"Defying the laws of convention botany, it lives as a perfect hybrid between a scarce mountain rose and an even scarcer orchid found only in Brazil," Wesker continued. To his left, the silver-haired man representing WilPharma leaned forward with interest. "I realize that this may not mean much to you at this point, but when carefully studied and combined with a drug known only to a few of Umbrella's top scientists, the unique traits of the this rare flower proved to be nothing less than extraordinary. When given as an injection, preliminary tests have shown that the serum has the ability to heal dead, damaged, or improperly functioning cells within the body."

Wesker smiled, relishing in the startled looks he was receiving. "In essence, we have discovered a way to diminish or even completely cure ailments such as Parkinson's disease, paralysis, and epilepsy," he finished, pausing to allow the crowd to murmur, exchanging glances of disbelief, euphoria, even jealously. Reeling from the implications of Wesker's words, Claire realized that her champagne glass was in danger of slipping from her sweaty, trembling hand and she hastily redoubled her grip on it.

"With the exception of my efforts, all of this is due primarily to the efforts of a single woman," Wesker purred, his eyes glittering so strongly even his glasses couldn't quite hide their reddish twinkle. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you the creator of the _Nightwish_ rose, Dr. Claire Redfield?"

Claire froze, her eyes wide, as Wesker gestured to her, that dangerous smile now completely evident. The people nearest to Claire gasped and stared at her, almost as if they'd just suddenly noticed she was there, while the rest of the crowd shifted to get a better look. Whispers filled the parlor like the hissing of a thousand snakes, as many as the emotions filling Claire's belly, twisting it and making it hurt. A sound rose above the murmur of conversation, sharp and dry, the crisp slap of skin meeting skin.

Claire turned her shocked gaze back to Wesker and realized he was clapping_, _his smug smile burning into her. The noise grew as other people joined in, until the entire room was alive with the sound. A few people even cheered softly. Wide-eyed and overwhelmed, Claire felt as though she'd been struck by lightening and melted to the spot. So this was why Wesker had invited her to come along. He'd been planning this! _But why?_ Claire thought frantically, looking at the sea of people. _I didn't do anything! I was an accident. I don't deserve this, and they're acting like I… like I…_

_Like you're more than just Claire Redfield,_ a small voice whispered. _You're Dr. Redfield now, the woman who won the honor to be on Wesker's arm. If Ada never got to do that, do you honestly think anyone else has? _

Embarrassment, anger, indignation, and dozen other negative emotions rose up within Claire, closing her throat and threatening to choke her right there in front of everybody. And yet, just as she wildly considered turning and hurling her champagne glass right into Wesker's face, she felt something else, too. Deep within her, a hot, glowing kernel was trying desperately to get her attention. A moment later, she realized what it was. It was _pride_. Accident or not, she'd created _Nightwish_. And if it could do all that…

The applause finally died down. Everybody was shaking her hand again, congratulating her on what she'd done, and Claire only barely remembered to play the part. She smiled and thanked every one of them, telling them she appreciated their praise, all while Wesker smiled down from his place on the podium. Claire was in a daze, but eventually she realized that most of the crowd was turning back towards the podium. A session of questions and answers had begun, and Claire took the chance to make her escape, draining the remainder of her warm champagne in one gulp.

Carefully edging her way through the party, she made her way to a large open balcony, the source of the draft she'd felt earlier. Clouds trailed lacy fingers across the upside-down sickle of the moon and there seemed to be a lot of stars in the sky, no doubt because they were deep in the French countryside and far from any light pollution. Feeling shaky, Claire leaned against the railing and looked out into the garden. The old rosebushes were draped in shadow, but with the light of the moon, the effect was more beautiful than eerie. A large juniper hedge thrust up below her. She could smell it's icy scent from here.

_It's not that far down_, she realized. She would never have been able to escape Mont St. Michel, but this mansion was a different story. _I could easily jump without getting hurt._

Claire eagerly ran the scenario over in her mind. Occupied with the party, Wesker wouldn't notice she was missing for a while and by then she could be over a mile away. She could find a payphone in a nearby town and call Chris, and he'd come and rescue her from his bizarre nightmare. Claire squeezed her handbag, feeling the syringes inside. There was enough there for two or three weeks at least, so there was no immediate danger of dropping dead. Leon was smart and he had government connections. Surely they could find a way to synthesize them before she ran out.

Claire reached down to pull off her heels, but in that moment she hesitated. Why did doing this feel so much like betrayal? Claire frowned and angrily yanked the shoes off, letting them clatter to the ground. Why should she care about betraying Wesker? It wasn't as if he really trusted her beyond sniffing things at the end of his leash. After all, he himself had betrayed people before. The experience wouldn't be a novel one for him, and it was no less than he probably deserved. And yet something was compelling her to stay, something intangible and beyond her ability to comprehend. Was it her time down in the labs, all the praise she received for her work? Or was it Wesker himself?

She teetered towards the edge of the balcony, her arms braced against the rail in preparation to jump, but she couldn't muster the will to actually do it. And as this realization swept through her, she realized she never be able to. The spark of defiance that had originally given her the idea was just that: a spark, not a fire. Sighing heavily, Claire stooped and picked her shoes up, setting them on the rail with a faint _clack_. The early autumn chill seeped into her bare feet, easing some of the discomfort that had built up during the night. Just then, strong hands suddenly gripped her arms from behind and Claire gasped.

"Weren't you enjoying the party, dear heart?"

"Damn it, Wesker!" Claire exclaimed, turning to face him. "Ninjas make more noise than you!"

Wesker chuckled, amused. Claire felt his gaze move to the red heels sitting on the railing, then back to her face. "They were starting to hurt," she said defensively.

"Of course."

Silence fell between them, broken only by the low sound of laughter floating out of the parlor. Claire bit her lip, peering at Wesker. "Does this mean you're not mad at me anymore?" she hazarded, not knowing what else to say to him.

Wesker heaved a sigh. "In a manner of speaking, no. You are a virus, dear heart, and you've infected me," he growled, taking her hand and slipping his arm around her waist. "You're going to pay for that one way or another."

Claire inhaled sharply as Wesker began to revolve slowly on the spot, dancing with her. She stumbled nearer to him, her chest flush against his, and put her free hand on his shoulder. It was either that or be manhandled like a life-sized ragdoll, however gently he intended to do it. What did Wesker mean by "pay for it one way or another"? Was that why he'd brought her here to feel nervous and uncomfortable? Because he was punishing her? Claire summoned up her best impersonation of the Medusa, but it fell flat. As much as she wanted to be angry with Wesker, she couldn't do it. He'd used her creation, yes, but he hadn't used _her_. He'd given her the credit in front of an entire room of people.

"What are you thinking about, dear heart?" Behind his glasses, Wesker's eyes seemed to glitter. The party was wearing down now, so nobody was paying attention to them.

Claire warily met his gaze. "Tonight."

"Ah." It wasn't just an affirmation. It was a subtle prompt to continue.

"Does it really do all that? My— the rose, I mean?" Claire asked in a murmur, feeling the rough stone rasping under her feet. Wesker was effortlessly leading them in a slow waltz, while Claire struggled to remember everything her mom had tried to teach her about dancing. Still, she wasn't doing badly. She hadn't stepped on his toes yet, anyway.

"Are you accusing me of deception or just outright lying?" asked Wesker mockingly. "The serum I mentioned is still in its test phase and will not be released for some time, but that's beside the point. Everything I said about it is true."

Claire felt a cool chill creep across her skin that had nothing to do with the night air. "…There's T-Virus in it, isn't there?" she whispered, filled with understanding.

"Smart girl," said Wesker, smiling. "We've been trying to develop it safely for years, but the inherent qualities of the virus made that impossible until just a month ago. That's what _Nightwish_ does, dear heart. When processed, the rose exudes a chemical that suppresses the T-Virus on a cellular level and renders it stable. When taken under proper medical supervision, using the serum presents no danger."

"You sure about that?" Claire shot back, thinking about Raccoon City. How long before the serum started being recalled when people mysteriously turned into zombies after using it? The thought gave her chills.

"I would not have done this if I wasn't," said Wesker, as if he were merely having a philosophical discussion instead of an argument on the merits of using T-Virus. "I realize that the virus has caused tragedy in the past, to say nothing of the fact that you yourself were forced to survive it, but power is neither good nor evil. And _if_," Wesker put special emphasis on the word, "_If_ that power could be harnessed to save lives, wouldn't you want that?"

Claire's mouth worked soundlessly, her heart racing so fast she was sure Wesker could hear it. She didn't want to accept that he could be right… but had she ever know Wesker to be wrong about anything? Unable to tear her eyes from his face, some dazed part of her realized how handsome Wesker actually was. He was attractive in the way the statue of a Greek god was attractive: chiseled, proud, and too perfect to be merely human. Claire suppressed a shiver as Wesker wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and bent her head forward with irresistible strength.

"That's what I thought," he purred, his deep voice resonating through her, and then his lips was upon hers. Claire gasped, her mouth flying open, but her words were conquered and stolen away. Wesker's thin lips were surprisingly soft and she could taste the sweet tang of amaretto liquor on his breath. A heat rose within her, so hot she wondered if she would burst into flame. It felt like making a deal with the devil, and for good reason, but Wesker was so handsome and powerful, and he smelled so wonderful. It would be incredible to just—

_NO! _

Claire flattened her hands on Wesker's chest and pulled back sharply, hating the feeling of disappointment that it created within her. The kiss broken, she could only stare at Wesker, her breath coming much faster than normal. This was the man who'd betrayed and murdered STARS, and while Claire knew that there was more to the story, she just couldn't bring herself to accept it like she'd begun to accept everything else.

"I… I'm sorry," she gasped.

Wesker casually adjusted his glasses. "Good," he rumbled. His hand still gripped the back of her neck, but he made no move to pull her back. "Sooner or later, dear heart, you won't be able to resist." His smirk burned through her, stoking the traitorous fire deep inside her belly. "And I can be a very patient man," he added, his eyes flashing like coals.

Claire gulped, frozen in place as Wesker's hand slid down to the curve of her lower back. "In any case, it's time we said our goodbyes and went back to the facility," he said, gesturing at the party. Claire drew in a breath, gathering strength, and put her heels back on. Wesker's kiss had been far from tender. It had been gentle, yes, but only barely, as if an even deeper well of passion lurked just below the surface. Claire had felt it only briefly, but it was enough to make her head spin. She'd _never_ been touched like that, knowing her education would carry her a lot further than some boy.

As Wesker guided her back into the parlor, however, Claire swept her tongue across her lips, remembering the taste of him, how'd he'd smelled and felt up close. She trembled faintly, trying to shake it off, but she realized that she was never going to be able to. Even worse, something deep inside her wanted more. Right now she had no doubt that Wesker desired her – he'd all but warned her last time she'd spoken to him in the greenhouse – but if she'd known then that his kiss would feel like _that_, she probably would have run away screaming.

_I've never getting away from him now,_ she realized as they made their way back up to where their helicopter pilot sat buried in a magazine. _And the worse part is, I don't even want to try._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Ah, but Claire, you forget the game has rules. You're ignoring them. You protest, and Wesker comes back. After all, he could have any number of women *cough* Excella *cough**cough* lying at his feet if he so desired. Among other things, you make it a challenge for him, and every hunter loves a good challenge. I think this is my favorite chapter to date! It's too late for both of them now. As they say, you can't help who you fall in love with.**

**Thank you so much for your wonderful comments! And that goes for all you anonymous reviewers, too! ^_^**


	14. Chapter 14: Slow Burn

Chapter 14: Slow Burn

"_I know it's way too late when this dance has begun,_

_So put on the heat and let the fire run.__"_

Claire was the victim of a plot. She knew that now. Oh, how could she have missed the warning signs, the devilish twinkle in the eyes of her tormentor? She should have been more vigilant. Had she forgotten where exactly she was? Forced to walk along with her eyes closed tight, Claire was in constant fear of stumbling into a hedge or some other unseen pitfall waiting to swallow her up. She would not ask where they were going. She would not beg.

"Ow!"

Okay, fine. Maybe she would beg. "Sherry, come on! Where the heck we going?" Claire demanded, trying to nurse a stubbed toe and walk at the same time. It took everything she had not to open her eyes as she felt the cobbled pathway begin to slope down, the crisp breeze blowing gently in her face. Night had fallen a few hours ago and the dark sky was packed with stars. At least, Claire assumed it would be. It wasn't as if she could see them right now.

"It's just a little further," said Sherry, excitedly pulling her along by her hand.

Claire fought to keep her eyes closed. "I swear, if I bump into one more thing—"

"Well, if you'd walk straight, you wouldn't run into stuff!"

Growling, Claire nipped the younger girl's wrist between two of her fingers, earning a playful giggle in return. After returning from Wesker's little party, Claire had been treading eggshells around the man for the past two days. For his part, Wesker didn't act out of the ordinary, but things had changed between them on some level and Claire was loosing sleep wondering if she could really allow herself have feelings for the man who'd betrayed her own brother. The answer should have been an empathetic NO, but things weren't that simple anymore. They'd stopped being simple the moment she'd decided not to jump off the balcony.

The squeak of a wrought-iron gate jolted Claire back to the present. She had no idea what Sherry was planning, but she honestly welcomed the distraction. Well… maybe she'd welcome it a bit more if it didn't include being dragged halfway across the island with her eyes closed. Sherry had taken both of her hands now, trying to guide her up a narrow flight of stairs, and Claire thought she heard people whispering. She frowned, trying to pinpoint the noise. Pale blue light rippled across her eyelids. Claire thought she smelled chlorine.

"Kay, Claire," said Sherry mischievously. "You can open you eyes."

Claire did so immediately, taken aback by the scene that met her eyes. A large oblong swimming pool was laid out before her, glowing in the light cast up from beneath the water's surface. Small holiday lights had been strung between the rows of poplar trees planted sparsely around the edge of the patio, swaying in the errant breeze, but Claire had only a moment to take this all in before her attention was drawn to the group of people standing by the pool.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"

Claire's mouth fell open as the crowd began to grin and clap. Dr. Connors was there, and so were Ada and Birkin, who was holding a large chocolate cake with several candles that were giving off fountains of bright little sparks. The geneticist held the cake out towards her, grinning cheekily. "You'd best blow it out before the wind does," he said.

"Yeah, or before you drop it," Ada remarked.

Grinning with a mixture of shock and delight, Claire moved forward to blow out the candles. With everything going on with Wesker, she'd completely forgotten that she turned twenty-three today. Sucking in a deep breath, she blew hard on the candles, extinguishing them with a crackle. The crowd clapped loudly as Birkin set the cake on a nearby table, which Claire noticed was stacked with several brightly wrapped presents. Nearly overwhelmed, she tried to express her thanks, but it was waved it away. Sherry eagerly pressed a gift bag into her hands.

"Here. You've gotta open this one first," she said.

Claire dug through the tissue paper and pulled out something black. Holding it up for better inspection, she realized it was a swimsuit with cutouts on the sides meant to show off the curves of her waist. Sherry grinned at her. "We hope it fits, otherwise you'll miss out on the pool," she said. "We already came dressed."

The younger girl pointed out the changing room and Claire excitedly hurried inside. After adjusting the straps, she got the swimsuit to fit her quite comfortably, much to her relief. The pool looked absolutely amazing. She came back out to see that Sherry had wasted no time getting in ahead of her, while Ada was still shimmying out of her dress. Claire wasn't surprised to find that the Asian woman had dressed in a provocative two-piece.

"Come on, Claire!" Sherry called, treading water.

Grinning, Claire hurried across the patio and dove into the pool, startling Sherry with her enthusiasm. The water was heated, but still pleasantly cool. Claire surfaced with a deep sigh, her wet hair clinging to her back. It'd been a long time since she'd gone swimming and she'd quite frankly missed it. She did a few laps back and forth across the pool, testing out the different depths. The shallow end tapered off at the standard three feet, while the other side sunk to a generous depth of over six. As Claire finished her fourth lap, she noticed Ada sit down by the edge on the pool. Her blond hair swirling, Sherry made her way over, strongly reminding Claire of the alligator from Disney's _Peter Pan_.

"Aren't you coming in, Ms. Wong?"

"I will in a minute," said Ada. "And don't act so formal! Honestly, how long have we known each other?"

"I don't know. A while," said Sherry innocently.

"Exactly. Now you're going to start calling me Ada or I swear I'll— Hey!"

There was a splash as Sherry dragged Ada in by her foot. Claire choked on a laugh. Sherry had grown noticeably bolder and less shy since she'd been hanging around the younger girl, and she supposed this was a good thing. Ada surfaced with a distressed sputter, but Claire could tell she was just milking it. A minute later, the Asian woman was gracefully doing laps.

"You didn't tell me you had your own pool," said Claire.

"We don't. It's a public pool," Birkin answered, sitting at the wrought iron table. "We're on an island at least four miles from civilization, so it's a great way to keep the staff – and their kids – happy with the workplace, if you know what I mean. It usually closes at nine, but I figured tonight was a special occasion," he added, winking at Claire.

So while Birkin and Dr. Connors chatted over glasses of soda, Claire and the girls held a race from one end of the pool to the other, then spent the rest of their time batting a beach ball around the pool in a makeshift game of water polo. Claire couldn't remember the last time she'd had this much fun. She'd never expected to find this kind of acceptance a world away from her life in Utah and the feeling did not go away, not even when she sat at the table to eat her birthday cake. It was double chocolate with raspberry filling. Her favorite.

"You're a real sneak, you know that?" she said to Sherry. "I should've known something was up when you asked me what kind of cake I liked."

Sherry grinned in an unnervingly Wesker-like fashion. After cake, Claire was presented with the small mound of gifts. Dr. Connors gave her a white candle-in-a-jar and a CD of Celtic music, while Birkin provided the chic silver CD player on which to listen to it. From Sherry, Claire received a new blank journal. Giddy with delight, she ran her hands over it. It was bound with fake leather and gilded with false gold leaf, and the front had been embossed with the phrase _Thank You_ in several different languages.

"Oh, Sherry, this is wonderful! I was just running out of room in my old one!"

"You really like it? I was worried you wouldn't like that old-fashioned look…"

Claire assured her a dozen times over that she didn't just like how the journal looked. She _loved_ it. Putting it in her lap for safekeeping, Claire unwrapped Ada's gift next. A sweet fragrance rose out of the paper as she pulled out a slender glass bottle with a gold cap. "Every woman's got to have her signature scent," said Ada as Claire examined the perfume. "That way her man can find her in the dark."

"Oh, so it's like being sniffed out by a dog?" said Claire dryly, laughing at Ada's look. Uncapping the perfume, she sprayed some on her neck and wrists, inhaling deeply with her nose close to her skin. For some reason, the scent reminded her of autumn, of crisp leaves and warm red berries. "Mmm. That smells really good," she sighed. "Thanks, Ada!"

Ada smiled and looked smug. Claire stuffed all the wrapping paper into a plastic bag, then opened her candle in order to take a sniff, asking Ada for something to light it with later on. In a moment she was presented with a cheap plastic lighter pulled from the black-hole that was the woman's purse. Claire suppressed the urge to snigger, wondering if there were any gadgets on loan from MI6 in there as well, to say nothing of the mascara, three shades of lipstick and at least one bottle of nail polish. She didn't say anything, however, as she wasn't sure if Ada would get offended.

They sat at the wrought iron table and talked about everything under the sun. Between them, they polished off an entire liter of cherry soda and a whole bag of chips. Birkin mentioned that a storm – the first of the season – was likely to hit late tomorrow, but for now the chilly air remained calm. Claire barely felt the temperature at all. She was having far too much fun playing games like _Truth or Dare_. Even Birkin was enjoying himself despite the fact that he was the only male at the table, acting for all the world like somebody's boyish, fun-loving uncle. In fact, he actually encouraged the sly double entendres about Wesker that Ada kept shooting in Claire's direction.

"I want to thank everybody for doing this for me," said Claire, the gratitude she felt plain to hear.

Dr. Connors smiled warmly. "Oh, you're very welcome, lass! When Sherry told me she wanted to do something nice for your birthday, I couldn't have been happier to help!"

Claire blushed a little. Eventually, however, the party had to end. Yawning, Dr. Connors was the first to depart, followed shortly after by Ada, while Claire stayed behind to help the Birkins clean up. The paper plates and Dixie cups were thrown away, and what was left of the cake was given to Claire to take back to her room. Sherry carefully put all of her presents into the iridescent gift bag her swimsuit had came in and handed it to her.

"Are you sure you can handle all that?" she asked worriedly. "I'll help you carry it if you want."

"That's okay. I can manage. You guys have already done more than enough for me tonight," said Claire.

She walked with them back to the main facility, where they parted on the floor directly below the one she was staying on. The corridors were empty and quiet. Nothing moved except for the security cameras mounted in the occasional corner, a little crimson light blinking under each one. As Claire started down the corridor, she neared a small alcove, one that was probably designed to hold archers or men with pots of boiling oil in ye olden times. She'd walked by it at least fifty times before, but tonight the shadows inside the alcove seemed to melt as a tall figure stepped into her path.

"Just a moment, dear heart."

"Wesker!" Claire's heart skipped a beat in surprise. Many of the windows contained old glass that was thick and glazed, full of tiny bubbles and other little imperfections like grains of sand. It defused the moonlight cutting across Wesker's face, so the light was no so much a beam as a soft, milky glow. With his dark attire and catlike stealth, Claire knew she would have walked right past him if Wesker hadn't revealed his presence.

"You remember what I said about the ninjas?" Claire asked silkily, glaring at him.

Wesker folded his arms. "Vaguely," he said. Clearly he enjoyed having startled her.

"Well, I meant it. Why do you have to sneak up on me like that? God, I swear the next time you do it I'm going to rip your arm off and beat you over the head with it!" Claire hissed.

Wesker chuckled quietly. "I'd like to see you try," he said, favoring her with one of his brain-melting smirks. "In any case, however, I wasn't 'sneaking' anywhere. I was merely waiting for you to return from your little party so I could speak with you in private."

Claire's mind raced, little alarm bells chiming in the back of her head. "Oh, really? What about?" she asked. She'd been trying to avoid Wesker these past few days, but now her reservations were coming back with vengeance. His presence enticed her into feeling and thinking too many dangerous things, and that was the primary reason she didn't want to be alone with him. She swallowed as Wesker reached into his pocket.

"I bought you a little gift, dear heart. Happy Birthday."

Claire's stomach soared, looking at the little velvet box resting in his palm. For one crazy minute she wondered if it contained an engagement ring. It certainly looked fancy enough. Her heart pounding, Claire set her things on the floor and reached out to take the gift, her hands damp and trembling. Something told her she needed to escape, but instead she took a deep breath and lifted the lid.

_Oh, my God. Oh… oh, my dear sweet God…_

Claire's jaw hit the floor and bounced back up. A diamond heart – and there was no doubt in her mind that it was a diamond – rested inside the box, the moonlight causing it to flash with brilliant rainbow fire. It was small enough to have sat comfortably on her thumbnail, but it was still _huge_ as far as diamonds went. Delicate silver fastenings attached the heart to a black velvet ribbon about half as wide as her little finger. Claire's hands shook.

"I… I don't understand," she moaned breathlessly. "Why? Why would you… it's so expensive… why?"

"I think you know why," said Wesker, taking the pendant from the box and coming around behind her. Claire shivered as he brushed her hair aside in order to refasten the clasp. "Mmm," he rumbled. "You smell _wonderful_."

The way he accentuated every syllable turned Claire's insides to hot caramel. They oozed down the inside of her ribs, then quickened to liquid fire as Wesker dropped a soft, dangerously sensual kiss on the curve of her shoulder. He lingered for only a second, but it was long enough for Claire to feel the smirk on his lips. She grit her teeth. _Ada, I'm going to kill you. You hear me, you sneaky bitch? You're dead!_

With the pendant resting securely around her throat, Wesker came to stand in front of her again. "What's wrong, dear heart?" he asked slyly. "Cat got your tongue?"

Claire fingered the diamond heart, feeling every cold, angular facet. "It… It's beautiful," she gasped, forcing her lips to form the words, mostly because it felt like the safest thing to do. This strange 'relationship' she'd formed with the man was about as safe as handling a bomb. "Thank you."

Wesker smirked, bringing his hand up to gently run his knuckles down her cheek, brushing her damp hair away from her face. He was so close, Claire wondered frantically if he would try to kiss her again. He didn't, however, and Claire was insanely grateful for it. She didn't think she'd be able to resist him, so it was better that she didn't have to try.

"I was wondering," Wesker purred. "Would you like to accompany me around the labs tomorrow?"

Claire knew at once that he wasn't talking about the ones making cough syrup. She hesitated, chewing on what he was asking of her. Maybe it was time to deal with the last face of Umbrella, the one that frightened her the most. A moment later, and against her better judgment, Claire thrust her head straight into the hangman's noose. "Sure," she whispered.

Wesker smiled in satisfaction. "I'll come for you around six o'clock tomorrow evening, " he said and then he stepped aside, out of her way. "I believe you were heading to your room. Don't let me stop you."

Nervously, Claire picked up her things and hurried on. Reaching her room, she went inside and locked the door for good measure. On numb legs, Claire made her way to the bathroom, kicking her clothes off as she went. She hung her damp swimsuit on a hook behind the door and wriggled into her nightclothes.

Catching sight of herself in the bathroom mirror, Claire gazed fixedly at the diamond necklace around her throat. Was it really a token of Wesker's not-very-well-hidden desire for her, or was it something else entirely, a gilded carrot dangling invitingly at the end of a stick? Claire scowled at her reflection. Loathe as she was to admit it, Wesker was enough of a carrot himself – and she got the nasty feeling he knew it, too – so diamonds were nothing more than the icing on the cake.

_Beware of Greeks bearing gifts_, thought Claire sourly, turning slightly to watch the necklace flash in the light. It was more than just pretty. It was beautiful, and that alone made her uncertain whether to treasure or hate it. _Does he think he's going to buy me with nice things? _

No, it was a bit more than that, she reflected. It was a gambit, a power play that bore all the trademark characteristics of Albert Wesker: subtle, powerful, and dangerously compelling. Just like the man himself. In retrospect, Claire realized that it was not a good idea to think about Wesker or his carrot, size notwithstanding. He was manipulating her, she knew that. No, wait. Scratch that. He was _continuing_ to manipulate her. Did he really think that she'd eventually fall at his feet just because he was just so superhumanly magnificent?

_I don't know. Maybe_, thought Claire, grimacing. The memory of Wesker's kiss had started to invade her dreams, a sure sign that she was in well over her head with this man. She reached up for the necklace, hesitated, and then dropped her hands back to her sides. What if, like so many of Wesker's other maneuvers in this twisted game of chess, its purpose was not to force the outcome, but rather to nudge it along. Like letting her meet with Sherry, or showing her the greenhouse. The list went on and on. Wesker's kiss had been an act of seduction and domination, she was aware of that. What she hadn't counted on was how it'd set fire to the perilous mixture of emotions that had been building inside her since her arrival on the island.

Claire heaved a sigh and decided to leave the necklace on. For now. After days of mentally beating herself up, she finally knew why she hadn't been able to jump from the balcony. It was because she didn't really know what kind of man Wesker was, or understand what motivated him to do the things he did. He was a dangerous man and he terrified her, but there was something about him that fascinated her as well. Her life had landed on a delicate balancing point between – God help her, the world was in danger of spinning out of orbit – _enjoying_ Wesker's intrigues and running as fast as she could in the opposite direction, because if he wasn't a cold, cruel and sadistic monster, then what was he really? She didn't want to know if she loved him, she wanted to know if she _could_, and she wasn't going to leave until she found out.

Claire could already picture her brother's reaction to such a statement.

_Haven't you heard, Claire-bear? Curiosity killed the cat._

* * *

><p>The next day dawned cold and overcast, a perfect reflection of Claire's turbulent mood. She went through the day like she always did, wishing that she'd had the good sense to wear a turtleneck to cover up her necklace. People all over the island were staring, and Sherry's eyes popped shamelessly when she saw it. To Claire's dismay, the girl was not only amazed by the necklace, but far too smart for her own good.<p>

"Does this mean you've stopped hating him?" Sherry asked, smiling at her.

Claire's mouth fell open. "I… how did you know it came from him?"

"Well, if my uncle didn't give it to you, then who did? Mr. Krauser? Ew!" Sherry made a disgusted face, as only teenage girls could. "You two have been spending a lot of time together and I just thought… you know…"

Claire sighed, defeated. "He gave it to me for my birthday," she admitted. There was a tense moment of silence. "And he's taking me to see the labs later," she added, dodging the question on whether or not she hated him. Wesker would have applauded she did it so smoothly. The man was definitely a bad influence.

Sherry positively beamed. "I'm glad, Claire," she said, in a voice that was far too womanly to be strictly normal. "I got to go down there once and it was really interesting! You gotta be careful, though. It's not a good idea to go around touching stuff, if you know what I mean."

"I kinda figured," said Claire dryly.

"Okay, well… do you want to watch a movie or something? I was planning on ordering something from the DVR later tonight, but since you'll be busy we can watch it now," said Sherry. "I'll make microwave popcorn."

Having nothing better to do, Claire agreed. Sitting on a pile of pillows in front of the couch, she almost forgot about Wesker as she munched on syrupy kettle corn and fought with Sherry over the volume. As the day went on, the clouds outside grew darker and more menacing, and by 4:30 that evening heavy rain had begun to pelt the island, causing the ocean to swell and come to shore in explosions of white foam. After thanking Sherry for the movie, Claire went back to her room and fixed herself a quick dinner, more out of habit than anything else. Then at quarter to five, she quickly brushed her teeth and went to the couch to wait.

At last, she heard the knock on the door and within moments, she was following Wesker down the hallway. "Why so nervous, dear heart?" he laughed, stepping into the elevator.

"I'm not nervous!" Claire snapped, briskly straightening her lab coat.

Smirking in a way that made Claire want to take his face and bash it off the wall, Wesker unclipped his ID card from his coat and pushed it into the reader. A discreet little LED immediately turned green, releasing the hidden lock-down on the control panel, and he tapped the button for Sub-floor 3. Claire took a deep breath and slowly blew it back out. A brief moment later, the elevator doors quietly swished open.

Claire's first impression of the lower levels was of a huge mega-room packed with numerous labs inside glass enclosures. Long fluorescent bulbs were spaced every five feet down the ceiling, and bright yellow signs bearing the universal symbol for biohazard were affixed at the entrance to every lab, along with the occasional safety warning. There was even a lounge with uncomfortable looking plastic chairs, but nothing to eat or even drink. Claire wasn't surprised. In fact, she actually understood. Regardless of what the island thought, she was no doctor, but she got the basic idea on how viruses worked. They didn't fly, they didn't swim, and they didn't crawl. They hitched rides. People, animals, water, food; it didn't matter.

Claire unconsciously moved a little closer to Wesker, though not close enough to make him aware that she WAS moving closer. The people in the labs closest to her were dressed in papery white jumpsuits that were sealed at the cuffs with duct tape, black gasmasks tightly strapped to their faces. Whatever they were working on, it wasn't serious enough to warrant the kind of suits with helmets and onboard oxygen tanks.

"So, what are we working on today?" asked Claire. "Ebola?"

Wesker chuckled at her. "Sorry to disappoint, dear heart. Those kinds of diseases, including the remainder of Spencer's so-called legacy, are studied in the HOT labs one level down. This part of the facility is considered COLD. The things here will cause severe illness, but in most cases they aren't deadly," he said. "Would you like to continue, or would you prefer to remain on this level for a while?"

He phrased it like a question, but Claire knew what it really was. A challenge. She squared her shoulders defiantly. "No, let's go," she said boldly.

They continued through the labs. A few people glanced at them, but were too professional to allow themselves to be distracted for long. Stopping at the elevator, Wesker pointed out a dispenser of hand sanitizer and a box of blue latex gloves. "If you would, dear heart. Safety first."

Nodding, Claire washed her hands and snapped the gloves on just as Wesker's phone began to ring. Digging around in his jacket, he took a moment to glance at the Caller ID, but put back it in his pocket without answering it. As they got into the elevator, Claire asked Wesker where the stairs were since she didn't see any. "There aren't any," he said, tapping the control panel. "In great numbers, the infected can eventually break down doors and shamble their way up stairs. Elevators pose less risk."

"What happens if they break down or stop working?"

"Then I'm afraid you stay wherever you are until the situation is rectified. Every single door and bulkhead on the lower levels is designed to close at the first sign of a biohazard. For better or worse, dear heart, there is no way out of these labs if an incident should occur. I've made sure of it."

Claire wasn't sure if this comforted her or not. It made her feel better about the people above ground, but much less certain of her own safety while she was down here. Even so, however, she understood it and accepted it as necessary. It gave her a new feeling of respect for Wesker and the people working down here.

One level down, the elevators doors swished apart to reveal a room much like the last: huge, sprawling, and constructed entirely of concrete and glass and linoleum, but Claire could tell it was more tightly secured. The glass was thicker, the doors heavier. However, all this extra protection wasn't immediately obvious, not like bars on the windows or razor wire across every vent. If she was down here everyday, Claire didn't think she'd even notice. She looked around with a kind of morbid curiosity, expecting to see a room filled with Tyrants and other nasty things in stasis tanks.

As it turned out, this wasn't far from the truth.

Turning a corner, Claire found herself looking into yet another laboratory. Peering through the heavy glass window, she saw a grotesque creature floating inside tub of chemicals. Disgust held Claire's eyes fixed upon it, trying to figure out what it was. It must have been a shortcoming of humanity to be so blatantly fascinated with something so utterly gross.

"Okay. I'll bite. Just what the heck is that thing?" Claire exclaimed.

"That, dear heart, is a snake," said Wesker. He tapped the control pad beside the door, causing it to hiss open with a rush of air. The lab was apparently vacuum-sealed. "Let's get a closer look, shall we?"

Claire hesitated for a minute, then followed Wesker into the small antechamber attached to the main lab. Lab coats were hung on hooks on one side of the room, while the other side was covered in plastic folders, clipboards, charts, and cups of disposable pens. Wesker closed the door behind them and Claire felt her eardrums pop as the room pressurized again. She could taste the faint, sour tang of oxygen and got the feeling that each lab was attached to its own air supply. A moment later, and with a growing sense of anticipation, Claire stepped into the next room.

Gently gripping Claire's arm just above the elbow, he guided her over to the table. Her face twisting in revulsion, Claire studied the warped organism. It just over two feet long and its scaly skin was a very unpleasant shade of grey. Swollen, putrid-looking pustules covered parts of the snake's body and near its ugly, triangular head.

"Nice friend you've got yourself there," she gagged, glancing at a nearby clipboard. According to it, the creature was the result of T-Virus mutation in a pit viper, a fact that Wesker soon corroborated. Claire resisted the sick urge to reach in there and prod it with a finger, wondering if it would feel muscular or squishy. "Bit of underachievement for you, isn't it? I thought bigger was better," she said, her disgust plain.

"Has it never occurred to you that I have other uses for these creatures?" Wesker sneered. "I could count the number of B.O.W.s on this island with one hand, so if you believe I have entire rooms full of Tyrants ready to deploy as my personal army, I'm afraid you're sorely mistaken."

"What _do_ you keep them around for, then? After everything that happened with Raccoon City, I can't believe you're still trying to convince me that this is good and right because of what you plan to do with it!" said Claire, a little hotly. "What was it you said to me? _Play with fire and you'll get burned._ That sound about right?"

"Hmm. I seem to remember that your answer was something about wearing fireproof clothing," Wesker retorted. "What's good for the goose is good for the gander. These creatures represent years of research. That alone is reason enough not to dispose of them, let alone their potential for medical applications. Take this creature for example." He gestured at the floating snake. "Protein compounds in its venom make it a potent anticoagulant, partially because of its ability to target the key neural pathways the body uses to keep blood flowing. If such a chemical could be harnessed and reversed, it could be invaluable to trauma centers or surgery when halting blood-loss means the different between life and death."

Claire forgot her trepidation. She studied the snake a moment longer, then glanced around the room. She noticed other stasis tanks filled with more snakes, but something told her that these ones were alive, hibernating in artificial wombs of chemicals and bubbles. At last, unable to stall any longer, Claire finally met Wesker's gaze. The overhead fluorescents made his face seem inhumanly pale, his glasses even darker. Despite his stony expression, however, or maybe because of it, Claire got the feeling he was gauging her reaction the same way he would with any experiment.

"Isn't that a bit trivial for you? For a god, I mean," she asked, but her voice was more curious than mocking. Genuine interest had begun to replace uncertainty. "I thought you wanted to establish a new world order, not advance the world of medicine."

Wesker frowned. "I think you misunderstand me, dear heart," he said. "People depend on gods to protect and make decisions for them. The presence of a god automatically separates the chaff from the wheat. The worthy rise up and join him, and the rest simply fall in line. But if you think I was going to obtain this by unleashing some kind of virus, you're even more deluded than I thought."

Claire furiously ground her teeth, but was too stunned to move when Wesker slipped a hand behind her neck, fingers digging into the base of her skull, and pulled her head forward. Then his mouth was at her ear. The domineering arrogance of what he was doing tore Claire between the instinctive urge to be disgusted and an even deeper, more primal longing to submit.

"I am not a good person, dear heart, and don't ever make the mistake of thinking that I am, but you need to realize that evil is merely a point of view." said Wesker softly. "Piece by piece, I am making this world mine, and don't pretend that it wouldn't be a better place with a god watching over it."

Claire worked her mouth, but no sound was forthcoming. Wesker's words should have filled her with repugnance, but instead they made sense to her. Why shouldn't those who were stronger and better lead? Breathing quickly, Claire lifted one hand and pressed it against Wesker's chest, her body rigid with defiance. Well, not all of her body. Some parts of it had taken on a rather liquid quality. "Stop it," she gritted, her face reddening.

"Stop what?"

"You know what. I know what you're doing and I'm getting tired of it!" said Claire. _Arrogant, high-handed bastard!_

"Are you sure?" Wesker asked, amused by the way she was half-heartedly straining against him. He kept her in place with inhuman ease, although she wasn't really struggling. "We could be great together, dear heart, and I think you know it. Why do you continue to fight?"

"Because you want me to give in and I'm not going to."

"And you say you're nothing like me."

"Piss off," growled Claire.

Wesker laughed and pulled back from her, leaving a cool vacuum where the heat of his body had been. Claire scowled at him as he snapped on a pair of exam and reached inside the tank to pick up the snake. She stared in blatant horror as he lifted it, limp and dripping wet, from the vat.

"What are you doing?" she demanded thinly, the previous argument forgotten.

Wesker chuckled softly. "Relax, dear heart. It's quite dead, I assure you." He set the snake down on a sterile green towel and Claire watched the material darken with water. Then to her utter horror, Wesker picked a scalpel off the table and offered it to her. "Have you ever done an autopsy before?"

_He wants me to cut it open? What the hell… is he trying to make me squeamish? _Claire's stomach lurched, bringing a watery surge of vomit halfway up her throat, but she forced it down. If Wesker wanted to yank her strings, she planned to yank right back. _He wants me to say no_, she realized, looking at his smug grin. Well, two could play at that game.

Reaching out, Claire accepted the scalpel, weighing the cold, deadly instrument in her hand. "What did you have in mind?" she asked, flashing him a nasty, saccharine smile.

There was a microsecond when Wesker seemed taken aback. Claire resisted the urge to lick a finger and make the universal gesture for scoring a point. The moment was exceedingly brief, however, as Wesker's smirk deepened with unmistakable satisfaction, making Claire wonder who had really won the round. Picking up a permanent marker, he drew a dotted line down the middle of the snake's belly. Claire tried to ignore the slight prickle of sweat that had broke out on her forehead.

Gathering her nerves, she began to slice along the marks that he'd made. Flesh and muscle parted frightening easily under the razor-sharp blade. As it turned out, the snake felt cold and rubbery to the touch, and was coated with a thin film of mucus that stuck to Claire's gloves like snot. Vomit burned the back of her throat again.

After about a minute, the snake had been neatly opened up down the middle. Wesker pushed his little finger between the flaps of skin and forced them apart, displaying the creature's long ribcage and all the revolting stuff it contained. "We'll start at the lungs and work inward, towards the heart. I'd like to take a sample of it for testing," said Wesker. "Also, the venom glands at the back of its jaw are valuable to my research."

"Of course they are," said Claire dryly.

She tightened her grip on the scalpel, but at that moment the lab door suddenly whooshed open. "Damn it, Al! Don't you answer your phone?" said a flustered male voice. "I was looking for information on the Ivan parasite and I think… Oh."

Claire turned to see Birkin standing in the middle of the lab, a stack of folders under his good arm. He looked bewildered to see her standing there. "Um… hi, Claire," he fumbled, grinning. "Getting the full tour of the place?"

Claire smiled at him. "I guess," she said.

"And? What do you think so far?"

"It… it's interesting," said Claire carefully.

"Good. Well, uh… ahem," Birkin uncomfortably began backing out of the lab. Glancing out of the corner of her eye, Claire noticed Wesker frowning. "I can see you two are busy so I'll come back another time." Birkin reached for the keypad to unlock the door.

"No, that's okay," said Claire, putting down the scalpel and taking her gloves off _the right way_ just to grind it in Wesker's face a little. She wasn't sure whether to be thankful for the interruption or disappointed. "It's obviously important, so I'll just be on my way. I can find the elevator myself."

"Claire, I, uh… I don't want to cut you short," said Birkin quickly.

"I'm good, Mr. Birkin. Really. You two catch up on whatever it is you need to," Claire answered, walking over to him. Birkin stood frozen for a minute, and then hastily unlocked the door for her. As Claire left the lab, she distinctly heard Wesker growl, "Will, so help me, you had better hope you've discovered the cure for cancer."

Claire stifled a laugh. If she didn't know any better, she'd have thought Wesker was pissed off by the interruption. Well, good. Let him stew for a little while. Maybe if it irritated him enough, he'd invite her down later. The thought gave Claire an unexpected thrill. As she walked, she thought about the snake and what Wesker had said about it. Okay, yes it was disgusting and yes, it was nasty – shuddering, she quickly wiped her hands on her coat – but what if it really could save people's lives? Would it be so bad then? As long as things were done right, did the end justify the means in this case? Lost in thought, Claire slowed down, peering curiously into the adjoining labs.

In one of the rooms, she saw a woman in plain green scrubs, her curly auburn hair caught back in a plastic clip. She had her arms in two heavy-duty rubber gloves set in the wall, working with a collection of tubes and pipettes on the other side of the glass. With her face hidden behind a paper mask, she could have been anybody, but for some reason she looked strong and beautiful, powerful in a plain, uncomplicated sort of way.

_That could be me_, Claire thought, trying to picture herself in scrubs. She'd never been entirely sure about a career, but saving people lives didn't seem like such terrible way to spend her life. Gazing ahead, Claire caught sight of herself faintly reflected in the glass and she focused her eyes closer, willing the image to sharpen. The woman that stared back could easily have been a doctor or surgeon, somebody intelligent and important.

Entranced by the image, Claire could only stare and wonder. _With a little practice, I could earn that lab coat, _she realized._ Would it be such a bad thing to really belong here… to belong to him? _Fine shivers raced along her skin. Strangely enough, the notion didn't bother her like it should have.

* * *

><p>Birkin cursed his ill timing. It wasn't as if he'd known Albert was bringing his girlfriend down to the labs. It wasn't his fault he'd walked in on them! Clearing his throat, he nervously approached his colleague. "Al… you remember the parasite we found in the Ivan? You told me to find out more about it."<p>

Wesker frowned coldly, his annoyance plain.

Birkin gulped. "Well, we've run all the tests on it and it's not the result of a T-Virus mutation, but I guess you already figured that out. Anyway, I did some more digging and," Birkin pulled a document out of the folder he was carrying, "this is what I came up with."

Wesker took the file and studied it, expecting to see some kind of evidence, or at least a new piece of information, but the document presented neither. It was a record on blood work done on Sergei Vladimir, dated about a month previous. This was nothing new to Wesker. The Ivan prototypes were created from Sergei's DNA, but despite having advanced in intelligence and stamina as compared to the older models, they couldn't manufacture certain proteins – an unfortunate flaw to be sure – so every six months they were given a shot of Sergei's blood. That was one reason he kept the Russian on a regular salary.

Wesker returned his gaze to Birkin's face. "You're wasting my time," he growled. "This is irrelevant."

"Yeah, I thought so, too, but check the date."

Wesker glared at him.

"Come on, Al. Humor me."

Wesker did, but the day didn't immediately strike him as important. "The procedure took place exactly four days before the Ivan turned up dead," Birkin explained hastily, noticing the frown on his colleague's face. He looked at him anxiously, hoping that the man would find this important. If not…

"Don't you think it's a little suspicious?" Birkin pressed.

Wesker was silent for a minute, apparently deep in thought. "You think he tampered with his blood sample before it was administered?" he asked, scanning the paper again.

"That's kinda where I was going with it, yeah," said Birkin, relieved that his proposal was at least being considered. He pointed to a chart at the bottom of the document. "It may not mean anything, but I noticed his white blood cell count was abnormally high, not to mention a spike in several obscure proteins. I mean, that isn't exceptionally unusual, but it's the best lead I've come up with so far. Red Queen confirms that there hasn't been any unauthorized activities in the Ivan chambers."

Silence fell between them. "Then I think we should find Mr. Vladimir and ask him a few _questions_." Wesker had the air of a hawk swooping down upon an unlucky mouse. He handed the document back to Birkin. "Thank you, Will. I believe this—"

Wesker broke off as the lab suddenly plunged into darkness.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I see there was a few tough customers this last chapter. LOL. ;)**

**However, constructive criticism is always welcome. No, really! It is! A few of you brought up some good points (I hope I cleared them up in this chapter) and **_**anonymous coward**_** pointed out an important plot-hole. It shall be implemented into the story at once, so kudos are in order! I hope you've enjoyed another extra-long chapter, because I'm going to be gone for a few weeks. You guys know the drill. I only barely got this chapter done in time! Bah. I might even be gone for three weeks, depending on how much time I have and how creative my muse is. Sorry! We've finally ripped into the kitchen and the bathroom is tumbling down the hill after it. **

**THANK YOU for all your support! I made it over a hundred reviews this last chapter – WOW! – and I've treasured and will continue to appreciate every single one. Did I mention how awesome you guys are? I'll be back soon! ^_^**

**P.S. Thanks goes out to **_**Akahoshi**_** for providing the inspiration for this chapter title! **


	15. Chapter 15: Nightmare

Chapter 15: Nightmare

Claire froze as the corridor suddenly went black with a low-pitched hum. All around her, the darkness bled to crimson as the emergency lights came on a second later, but compared to the light that had filled the hallway earlier, the gloom was utterly suffocating. Claire turned to look back the way she'd come. The hallway seemed to recede into the distance like an airstrip, growing darker and more ominous. She swallowed, feeling uneasy for reasons she didn't want to investigate further. What had happened to the power?

A flash of light suddenly drew her attention. In the lab directly to her left, somebody had managed to find a flashlight and was panning it around the room. The expression on the man's face did little to reassure her. She could see his lips moving, but Claire couldn't hear what he was saying. One of his colleagues walked across the lab and tried the door, but all she got was a discouraging clunk.

_So that means the doors are locked, too_, thought Claire.

Looking uneasy, the woman moved to peer through the glass, noticing Claire standing on the other side. She waved to get the younger woman's attention, obviously trying to signal her. "I can't hear you!" said Claire loudly, grimacing as her voice echoed down the corridor.

Understanding dawned on the blonde's features. Grabbing a clipboard off the nearby table, she scribbled something on the pad and slapped it against the glass. _Try the door from your side. 5-6-3-3-1_

Claire couldn't imagine how this would help, but she tried anyway. However, the keypad was dark and unresponsive, and gave no indication that it was even on, let alone malfunctioning. Claire shrugged at the other woman, who quickly wrote a new message. _Elevator?_

Claire glanced up the dark hallway. "I'll take a look," she said, pointing. The woman nodded encouragingly.

Other people were trying doors up and down the corridor, straining to peer through the glass, but the red light gave it an eerie sheen that made it difficult to see out. Claire wished she had a flashlight. Her eyes weren't adjusting to the gloom as fast as she would have hoped and the sinking feeling in her stomach was growing. She wanted to think that the storm had simply knocked the power for a loop, but something told her that this wasn't the case. Wesker would have made sure that there were backup generators upon backup generators, so things just didn't add up.

As Claire turned in the direction of the elevator, however, a noise floated up the dark corridor and she felt the hairs on her neck stand up straight. She glanced down the red-tinged hallway, listening hard. She tried to reassure herself that she was merely being jumpy, a condition that would doubtless be alleviated by getting to the elevator. Claire turned to go when she heard it again: a low groaning, thick and wet, full of unspeakable pain. She took a step back, feeling the blood drain from her face.

_No! That's impossible!_

Bewildered, the blonde woman pressed herself to the glass, trying to see what Claire was staring at. The corridor fell silent again. Praying with every fiber of her being that she'd imagined the sound, Claire began backing down the corridor, feeling horribly exposed. Even if something had gone wrong, she told herself that nothing could be out in the hall. All the doors were still locked. Claire's shoes squeaked on the tiles as she moved, growing slightly more confident, but then the chilling sound of breaking glass filled the corridor, not from in front of her, but from behind.

Gasping, Claire pressed against the wall, staring into the shadows at the opposite side of the hall. All of the labs were intact, but Claire noticed that one of the doors were ajar, swinging slightly on its hinges. Something wet and gleaming was flowing across the floor. The emergency lights did an abrupt, staccato flicker and in the momentary strobe Claire saw the cracked wreckage of several stasis tanks. The sinking feeling in her stomach became something more akin to drowning. She heard movement, something small and wet, and it wasn't long before her eyes picked out something moving across the dark floor. Claire stood stock still as she watched it, trying to discern what it was.

It was humped and slug-like, roughly the size of a paperback book. And there wasn't just one. There was at least five or six, maybe more, wriggling their way across the tiles with wet squelching noises. Claire's moist palms stuck to the wall as the creatures converged on the door, oozing all over the glass. In the dim glow of the lights, she could see a dirty pink gash of a mouth on the underside of their bellies. Claire thought the rows of short, needle sharp teeth made it look like an open zipper. She swallowed as one of the creatures made its way into the hall. They seemed drunk and sluggish, but Claire had a feeling that it wouldn't last long.

There was no getting to the elevator now.

Forcing her legs into gear, she began to edge along the wall, away from the leeches. Something was very, very wrong. If the little creatures were awake and running loose, then it was probably safe to say that the larger B. were stirring as well. Claire continued to sidle away, repeatedly checking both ends of the hall. If all the doors were locked, how had the one containing the leeches managed to open? A terrible suspicion formed in Claire's mind, but she forced it aside. Wesker wouldn't unleash a biohazard on his own island. Or would he? Horrible imaginings of what had happened up at Arklay filled Claire's head. _Oh, God, I am so screwed._

She shook herself, trying to remember the layout of the corridor. The lights threw heavy shadows, making weird shapes on the walls and ceiling, further disorienting her. She hadn't made any turns since leaving Wesker. Or had she taken a left at the last junction? She was coming back in the opposite direction, so everything was backwards now, right? Claire felt a maddening urge to scream. She'd always had a good sense on direction, but the halls were unfamiliar and it was dark on top of it. The emergency lights flickered again and Claire stopped, praying that they wouldn't go out, too. Was somebody trying to turn the power back on?

A muffled thumping further down the corridor sent her heart crawling into her throat. The urge to have Wesker with her was so powerful and unexpected, Claire almost groaned. She had to find a way back to the lab. Gathering her nerves, she began to move again, obsessively checking both left and right ends of hall like a nervous kid trying to cross a street. She wished she had some kind of weapon. Even a pocketknife would have been better than nothing. Reaching a junction, Claire peered around the corner. The thumping was louder now, coming from up ahead.

Breathing fast, Claire scanned the gloomy corridor, searching for something she recognized. A tremor of movement drew her gaze. Another door had been left open, creating a yawning rectangle of darkness that was only slightly less bright than the rest of the hall. Shadows moved inside the lab. Wet groaning noises echoed off the bare walls.

_How could people be infected already? Did the T-Virus get out somehow? _Claire did the math. It'd been between five to ten minutes since the power had gone out, and it was probably safe to assume that other B.O.W.s like the leaches had escaped. People would have been bitten, a lot of them killed, and one of the most frightening things about the T-Virus was how fast it worked. If the victim of a zombie attack died of his or her wounds, then the virus reanimated them in mere minutes.

Claire pushed clinging stands of hair away from her forehead. She had to find something she could use to defend herself. But this wasn't the streets of Raccoon City. There were no tire irons, no heavy lengths of wood, hammers, utility knives, or anything else that could act as a rudimentary weapon. Her stomach twisting, Claire tried to block out the moaning. Across the hall was a lounge area with spare lab coats on hooks and more uncomfortable plastic chairs.

_Plastic chairs with metal legs_, thought Claire.

Sliding across the hall, she picked up one of the chairs, bravely holding it out like a lion tamer. A man came out of the open lab, arms swinging loosely at his sides. Blood stained his coat, dripping from the pit that had been the left side of his face. Claire's gorge rose and she hastily backed away, never taking her eyes off the zombie. Grunting softly, it turned its head in her direction, drawn by the squeaking of her shoes.

Claire prepared to swing the chair as hard as she could.

However, the zombie shuffled after her too slowly to be an immediate threat. Good. At least it wasn't like those demonically fast ones with the claws and swollen, bloody faces. Claire turned and ran a little ways ahead, holding the chair like a club. Adrenaline buzzed in her brain, screaming at her to flee in an ancient, wordless tongue, but she held it in, trying to make it sharpen her senses. Peering into the labs as they flashed by, Claire prayed for a glimpse of slicked-back golden hair. _Nothing like stroking his ego a little,_ she reflected dully.

Not wanting to run into anything, Claire slowed down, checking to see if the zombie was following. It wasn't. However, Claire knew better than to think that there wouldn't be more of them. If two doors had been left open – deliberately, by the feel of things – then there was bound to be others. Pausing, Claire scanned the walls for a directory or a sign pointing the way to Wesker. At that moment, a burst of static filled the hallway. It was faint, but unmistakable.

"_Erics, this is Krauser, report. Report! What's going on down there?"_

Somewhere out in that blackness, there was a walkie-talkie, and a walkie-talkie meant help. Gripping the chair, Claire moved up the hallway, straining her eyes to pick up even the slightest sign of movement. The radio squelched again, but nobody answered it. It wasn't an encouraging sign. Claire swallowed, realizing her mouth had gone dry. Sterile walls and eerie red glass slipped by. Claire noticed somebody standing in the middle of the hallway. She stopped about twenty feet away from him, knowing better than to approach until she was sure.

"Hey! Hey, you!"

There was no answer. However, the man pivoted slowly to face her. His jaw was slack, his face stained in the blood that had sprayed from his severed arteries. Something big had taken a swipe at his throat and clawed out his windpipe. Claire swore colorfully, too stunned to be sick. Groaning thickly, the zombie slowly began lurching towards her. It was dressed in military gear; heavy boots, cargo pants, and a Kevlar vest. On his belt, a short-wave radio was blinking. Claire backed up a step, her eyes fixed on the little flashing LED. She needed to get a hold of that radio.

Steeling herself, Claire redoubled her grip on the chair and got ready to use it.

* * *

><p>Wesker was pacing like a caged panther, his cell phone pressed to his ear. He'd already tried to pry the door open, but the thick bulkhead defied even his phenomenal strength. Within minutes of loosing power, the stasis tanks in the adjoining lab had shut down, releasing the B.O.W.s. Fortunately, he and Birkin had been in the airlock when it'd happened, but Dr. Isaacs – an older man who had come into the lab only moments before – hadn't been so lucky. After seconds of frantically banging on the glass and begging for help, he'd been bitten to death by the infant Yawns. His corpse was lying inert at the bottom of the window.<p>

"Damn it, Krauser, I want a report and I want it now!" Wesker growled into his phone. Nervously chewing on his bottom lip, Birkin was panning the flashlight around the room again. The way it kept bouncing off his glasses was starting to drive Wesker insane.

"Sorry, sir!" came the crisp reply. "We've lost power to the whole island. The only reason you've got lights down there is because the emergency generators aren't on the main grid. Red Queen is down and isn't responding to her reboot codes. We've found a device planted nearby and they're trying to figure it out now."

Wesker growled dangerously. "What else?" he demanded thinly.

"I don't know. Things are pretty sketchy. Reports are coming in from every sector and— Quit screwing around and get that line hooked up!" Krauser hollered, holding the phone slightly away from his face. Nothing said leadership like a good kick in the ass. "Sorry," he amended, returning his attention to Wesker. "My boys just started down the elevator shaft. They'll be down there any minute."

Wesker nodded. Despite the near total lack of information and overall confusion, island security was moving like clockwork. There was a thump on the wall behind him, causing Birkin to jump backward in alarm. Wesker watched dispassionately as Dr. Isaacs hauled himself upright, pounding on the window in a slow, demented rhythm. His fists left slick, bloody imprints where they hit.

"Time is of the essence, Krauser," said Wesker, his words like knives. "I want biohazard units deployed immediately before this turns into an outbreak! I will not tolerate delays. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly, sir," said Krauser. "What are your orders for the infected?"

"Eliminate them. I'm not taking any chances."

"And the B.O.W.s?"

"I would prefer to keep fatalities at a minimum, so use tranquilizers if you can," said Wesker, "but only if doing so doesn't result in more casualties. I trust your judgment in that regard. In the meantime, send somebody to release me!"

* * *

><p>The impact sent bruising vibrations up Claire's arm, nearly dislodging the chair from her grasp. However, she clung on, driving all of her weight into the remainder of the swing. The zombie's head snapped to the side, blood leaping into the air, as she brought the chair crashing into the side of its face. Grunting, it staggered back, into the wall, and Claire viciously struck it again. There was a muffled crack and the zombie flumped to the ground, still very much alive. It started to drag itself along the tiles, scrabbling for Claire's ankles.<p>

Gritting her teeth, Claire brought her foot down on the back of the zombie's head, driving his face into the floor. She'd done this before. It wasn't hard when she told herself that this thing would chew her throat out without a second thought. There was a sound like a watermelon being dropped on concrete and the zombie went limp. Claire stepped back, panting and feeling mildly sick. _Why me? What did I do to deserve this? _

Of course, there was no answer. Swallowing her rising nausea, Claire used the blood-spattered chair to roll the zombie onto its back, watching it for the slightest movement. They could turn into sneaky ambush predators, ones that liked to play dead and wait for their victims to pass by. However, the zombie didn't move. Moving fast, Claire snatched the radio off his belt. Thankfully, it didn't have any blood on it. She pressed the button and held the unit to her mouth.

"Hello? Does anybody read me?"

Static popped and crackled. "Who the hell are you? What are you doing on this channel? Over." asked a gruff male voice.

"My name's Claire and I'm trapped on the lower levels, that's what I'm doing on this channel," said Claire, watching the zombie at her feet. "The power went out ten minutes ago and several people have been infected. Uh… Over."

"We know. Security teams are on their way," said the voice. "Just sit tight and wait to be evacuated."

"I would," Claire answered, "but I'm kinda out in the hallway."

More chatter on the radio. Claire heard the end of a rather colorful curse, something about "goddamned incompetent civvies". "Can you give me your location?" the man asked.

Claire hastily glanced around, looking for a sign. "Uh… I'm standing by Lab 21 right now," she said, reading off a nearby plaque. Making the assumption that she was the only one down here with a radio, she decided to be as helpful as possible. She wanted to be rescued, but that didn't mean she couldn't handle herself in a crisis, or draw manpower away from more important things.

"I've already encountered several zombies and there's a group of leeches somewhere near the elevator, or at least there were five minutes ago," she told the man. "Somebody left the doors open, so there's no telling what could've gotten out."

"What?" The man sounded agitated now. "Repeat your last. Over."

"I said somebody left the doors unlocked, so there's a lot of things wandering the hallways. They're not just in the labs. Over." Claire repeated. A thick, wet groan floated up the hallway as if to verify her statement. She glanced nervously in the direction of the sound. The man on the radio seemed to take a very long time to get back to her.

"I'm sending a team to your location. It there anything else you can give me?"

_Just that I think there's something big prowling around down here,_ thought Claire, suddenly noticing the trail of bloody claw marks leading up the hallway. She told the man on the radio as much, adding, "Do you want me to work my way towards you? We can meet halfway, save some time."

The man on the radio seemed taken aback by how calm she was, at least on the surface. He obviously had assumed he was dealing with a frightened researcher. "If you think you can, that would be helpful," he said. "Take Hallway 9. Don't make any turns until you reach Hallway 11, then take a left. Do you have that? Over."

"Take hallway 9 straight until I get to hallway 11. Then I turn left," Claire repeated. "Got it."

She stuffed the radio into the waistband of her jeans. Glancing down at the dead body, she noticed a thigh holster, but the gun it should have contained was missing. Just her luck. Warily squatting down, however, Claire located a military issue knife sheathed on the man's shoulder. She had to get in pretty close in order to use it, but at least it was better than a chair. Feeling a little more secure with a proper weapon, Claire picked a direction and began walking. In the distance, she heard the chatter of gunfire.

_They're not playing around, are they?_

At the next junction, Claire found a mess of congealing blood on the floor and on one wall. The claw marks were more widespread here. Slowing down, Claire saw something glinting dully on the floor and she bent to pick it up. It was a 9mm _Punisher_, the one missing from the dead man further up the hall. Spent bullet casing littered the ground. Claire pulled out the clip and found that the gun had only two rounds left, three counting the one already in the chamber. She replaced the clip and moved on, feeling antsy. Whatever was down here, a full clip of ammo hadn't been enough to stop it.

The radio in her pocket crackled intermittently as Claire found hallway 11 and made a left, moving along the perimeter of the labs. She heard a crash further up the hallway, loud and chilling, the sound of metal being rent. Freezing in her tracks, Claire tried to pinpoint the exact location of the sound. To her left was a short staircase and another long hallway, but Claire's attention was drawn away from it by distant sound of men shouting and the thunder of gunfire.

Claire peered down the corridor, thinking she saw flashlights. "…Hello?" She called out as loud as she dared.

"_Zdravstvujtye_, my dear."

Gasping, Claire spun towards the voice. Somebody was walking up the corridor towards her, booted feet ringing loudly in the sudden stillness. It took her eyes a long moment to recognize who it was, but his height and build were unmistakable. "Mr. Vladimir," Claire breathed, suddenly recalling his name.

Sergei smiled, a mocking little twitch of his lips. Claire's eyes were drawn to the strange bladed weapon he was twirling in his right hand. It flashed in the ruddy glow of the emergency lights, generating a wicked, high-pitched resonance as it was spun. Claire felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

"Vell, isn't this a happy coincidence," said Sergei. His eyes seemed to flare in the semi-darkness, causing Claire's gaze to snap to his face. The Russian's eyes were cold and granite-like, but there was something there… something more than a cast-off gleam.

"Yeah, I guess so," she said, hardly reassured. Remembering her last encounter with Sergei, she was understandably uneasy, but he was one of Umbrella's mercenaries – an experienced one even if not the highest ranking – so she could only assume he'd been sent to rescue her. The little radio blinking on Sergei's belt seemed to confirm that theory.

"Did you hear that just now?" she asked him, pointing up the next corridor.

Sergei nodded. "I vould imagine it vas something large," he said, laughing quietly, as though this were a wonderful private joke. "As for you, tventy minutes alone in this little nightmare and still undamaged?" he gazed at weapons she'd managed to acquire. "Quite impressive."

"If you say so," said Claire nervously. She heard something heavy moving around in the corridor. Taking her eyes off Sergei, she watched a huge shape materialize out of the darkness. The man – or beast, she couldn't tell which – was taller than Sergei and just as broad, dressed from head to toe in a long white coat. Gaping at it, Claire's eyes traveled over its mushroom grey skin and bald cranium. She wasn't sure how she knew, per se, but this thing wasn't human. She raised her gun and fired at it, cursing when the chamber popped open and stayed that way.

Growling, the thing quickened its pace at her. The few bullets she'd managed to send its way hadn't affected it in the slightest. In fact, they'd seemed to ricochet off its coat, pinging away into the walls. Lifting her knife in a futile gesture of defense, Claire sprang back, her back colliding with Sergei. She expected him to react to the thing coming down the corridor at them, but the Russian only chuckled and settled his hand on her shoulder.

"Stand down, Ivan," he said gruffly.

To Claire's shock, the beast stopped and stood at attention, almost like a robot waiting for a new set of orders. She stared at it, trying to process what had happened. "How'd you do that?" she demanded, looking at Sergei.

He chuckled again. "Quite impressive, aren't they? " he laughed. "My comrades were genetically programmed follow my orders vithout question. I like a voman that can be impressed with power." His thumb drew slow circles on the side of her neck. His tone and gesture set off a primitive alarm in the back of Claire's head, urging her to notice that something was wrong.

She laughed nervously, not quite taking her eyes off the "Ivan" standing not two yards away. The creature was carrying a large metal briefcase. It was unmarked, but the small control pad told Claire all she needed to know. Whatever was in there, it was either dangerous or important, probably both.

"Don't you think we should start working our way out of here?" she asked Sergei, highly uncomfortable with the friction of his thumb and how it was steadily moving lower, following the curve of her collarbone. She tried to move away, regretting having gotten close in the first place, but his grip tightened, his short fingernails biting through the fabric of her shirt. Claire stared at him, a small pit of dread forming in her stomach.

"Let me go," she said firmly.

"Why?" Sergei asked, smiling. "Ve are alone, you and I, and I think it's time I showed you vhat happens to things that belong to Albert Wesker."

His leering face moved closer, and dread suddenly left Claire's chest cold and watery. Gasping, she tried wrenching away, only to find herself being shoved against a wall, her breath coming out in a painful _whoosh_. Sergei leaned against her, and she could feel his hardness grind against her belly.

"Scream for me, my dear," he said with a hideous grin.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: And so I have returned! I want to thank everyone for being so patient these past few weeks. I really appreciate it, and the kitchen looks great! I also really wanted to thank **_**Akahoshi**_** for her/his wonderful reviews on my last chapter! They were really well-written and insightful, and I truly enjoyed reading them! I especially loved that bit about **_**"here **__**roses are not some universal symbol of romance, but rather they are specimens, symbols of an unfolding mystery and struggle". **_**That's EXACTLY the kind of imagery I was trying to create! Thank you! **

**I hope you all enjoyed a little taste of the traditional horror genre in this chapter. The story's been exclusively plot-based until now and I wanted to do something filled with blood and zombies, and all that good stuff **_**RE**_** was built on. HINT: It's a preview of coming attractions. There will be more survival horror in future chapters. After all, this IS a Resident Evil fanfic. And a****s for the timeframe for how long it takes the T-Virus to reanimate a dead body, I'm going on the evidence presented in _Degeneration_. In the begining, the security guard turns into a zombie in just under a minute of being infected and killed. **

**And before you all form a mob and try to burn me at the stake, I swear that nothing bad is going to happen to Claire! I wouldn't do that to her. We're just cliff-hanging here, and speaking of cliffhangers, they're not always because I love leaving you all out to dry. This particular chapter was over 10,000 words – YIKES! – and can you guess where the best place to split it up was? **

**On the bright side, I know you'll keep coming back for more. Heh, heh. See you next Sunday! ^_^**


	16. Chapter 16: Dark Designs

Chapter 16: Dark Designs

Wesker's fist was clenched at his side, his glove squeaking with the strain. He knew it was unrealistic to expect Krauser's team to move any faster, as they were well within the time limit he'd set for situations like this, but he hadn't counted on getting trapped in the labs, either. In his mind, it added insult to injury. Being a practical and highly efficient man, he wasn't used to sitting on his hands in the middle of a crisis situation. Teeth bared, he went back to pacing the floor, earning a reproachful look from Birkin. How long before the geneticist asked him to sit down again?

A technician was crouched outside, trying to wire the panel to a portable generator in order to unlock the door. Through the massive glass window, Wesker could see the same process being attempted on every door within his field of vision. Armed soldiers had already fanned out through the lower levels. Wesker had to admire their single-minded precision – he'd picked his men well – but it would have been preferable to not need them at all. This was one of the worst possible scenarios he'd planned for, and he was going to demand answers.

Through the window, Wesker saw Krauser speaking into his radio, getting more agitated by the minute. Wesker brought his cellphone to his ear. It was an expensive model equipped with a two-way radio, but having been on it almost constantly, it was possible he'd missed something. He could only listen to one channel at a time.

"Some kind of trouble?" Wesker drawled.

"You could call it that," Krauser replied, scowling. "We got some broad stuck out in the hallway, so I dispatched a unit to pick her up. I've just lost contact with both men and now I can't raise her either, so there's probably something big roaming around down there."

A horrible suspicion rooted itself in Wesker's brain. "Did she indentify herself?" he demanded.

"Yeah, sure. Said her name was Claire, or some crap like that. Why?"

Wesker's blood ran cold. He slammed the wall with a fist, cursing every single one of Dante's nine hells. The power had gone out while Claire was still en route to the elevators. He realized he should have expected it and planned ahead, but in his frustration he'd overlooked it. Now something told him he was going to pay for it. Luck had spurned him his entire life.

Growling deep in his chest, Wesker furiously scanned the room. The door was four inches of solid steel, built on hydraulic runners that retracted it into the ceiling. It was designed to stop Tyrants, so no amount of pounding would make it shift. The rest of the lab was, in essence, a huge cement block overlaid with sterile tiling. It was built like a vault. Nothing was supposed to go in or out of it. Even the window was two inches of solid safety glass that had been welded at the seams to make sure not even the tiniest microbe could escape.

However, the window was still the room's weakest point and he couldn't afford to wait any longer, even if things hadn't already passed beyond his control. _Damn it, woman, you had better be alright_, Wesker said to himself, the strength of the emotion catching him off guard. It felt like something molten being forced through that cold, iron thing that passed for his heart, but he would dwell on the implication later. He had no time for silly emotional conflicts.

"…Al?" Birkin nervously approached him, sensing his sudden urgency. "What's wrong?"

"Get back, Will. Down on the floor behind the desk," Wesker ordered, ripping his gun out of his shoulder holster. Red light flashed along its chrome-plated barrel. Birkin's eyes bulged at the sight of it, realizing what his colleague intended to do.

"Are you crazy?" he howled, grabbing Wesker's arm. "The bullet's just going ricochet around and—"

"That's why I'm telling you to take cover," Wesker growled, chambering the first bullet. He shoved Birkin back, in no mood to explain or waste time catering to his questions. The desk caught Birkin behind the knees and he nearly toppled over it, so great was the force at which he'd been propelled away. Long experience had taught him that regardless of whatever had thrust Wesker into such a volatile state, plea-bargaining would do no good. Eyes wide, Birkin scrambled beneath the heavy metal desk and covered his head with arms, wondering if his colleague had finally snapped.

After a swift glance in Birkin's direction, and much to the horror of the people standing outside the lab, Wesker pointed his gun at the window and fired. The report echoed like a thunderclap in the confined room. As predicted, the bullet zinged away into the ceiling, shattering a fluorescent light. Glass and bits of metal rained down on the floor as Wesker fired at the same spot several more times. Several people in the hallway were trying to get out of the line of fire in case the glass failed.

Wesker lowered his gun, scrutinizing the damage done to the window. The thick glass had cracked and spider-webbed instead of shattering outright, and the damage was localized to his side of the window, but this had been expected. Wesker crisply replaced his gun and strode over to the window, placing his hands flat on either side of the crack. Peering over the desk, a pale Birkin took in Wesker's low stance, his bared teeth.

"Al, no!" he exclaimed, flying to his feet. "Just wait until the guys unlock the door. You're going to be sorry if you do this!"

_I'll be even sorrier if I don't,_ thought Wesker. He closed his eyes and began to strain against the glass. This room was meant to hold B., not gods. Growling, Wesker set his incredible strength against the glass. Muscles bunched and gathered between his shoulders, tendons standing out like high-tension cables. For moment, nothing seemed to happen, and then jagged little snapping noises filled the room as the glass began to fissure.

With a loud crack, the window disintegrated into a glittering cascade of crumbled glass. Swaying slightly to hold his balance without toppling headfirst into the hallway, Wesker stepped out of the lab, pulling his gun back out of its holster. Krauser and the other mercenaries stood rooted to floor, mouths hanging open in silent disbelief.

"Give me her last known position," Wesker ordered, turning a shockingly crimson glare upon Krauser.

The big man gaped shamelessly. "…What? Oh!" Krauser hastily snapped to attention, composing his face into what he hoped was a hard and confident expression. He didn't pay attention to rumors and he certainly didn't gossip, but he wasn't blind. Suddenly, the identity of the missing woman fell into place.

"Her last radio transmission was near Lab 21," said Krauser. "I sent her down hallway 9, back towards us."

Without a word, Wesker turned on his heel and marched down the hallway, fading into the blackness at the end of it. Krauser was not a poetic man, but _predatory _was the only one way he could describe that heavy, menacing stride. For a moment, he almost felt sorry for the creatures the chairman was bound to encounter on his way. Almost.

* * *

><p>Claire was sick with horror. She'd fought her way through both Raccoon City and Rockfort Island, held her ground against nearly everything Umbrella's depraved labs could throw at her, but even that didn't compare to the cold, incapacitating terror she felt now. Sergei closed the distance between them, tucking his scythe into his belt, and seized a handful of her hair, jerking her upright against the wall. Pain sliced across her scalp as she tried to twist out of his grasp.<p>

"I varned you, I'm taking everything he doesn't deserve, my dear, and since you're here, I'm afraid that includes you, too," Sergei hissed, putting his face close to hers.

His held her tightly with one hand and reached for his belt with the other. Nausea flooded Claire's body. She wouldn't be violated by this bastard! Crying out, she bucked against the wall despite the searing pain in her scalp and struck him hard in the side of the head. Her strength must have surprised him, because Sergei recoiled slightly, freeing her from most of his weight.

Claire seized her only chance. He'd moved too quickly before, depriving her of a chance to us it, but Claire still hadn't let go of her knife. Freeing her arm, she drove the thick blade into his shoulder, feeling the serrated edge scrap against his collarbone. Sergei roared and Claire twisted to one side, leaving a lot of hair behind in the process, but she ignored it. She thought she had it, she thought she would break free, but he grabbed her again. He whirled and threw her hard into the other side of the wall. Red agony sparkled through her body.

She blinked, and she vision cleared. Sergei stood in the middle of the hall, clutching the knife still imbedded in his shoulder. To Claire's absolute horror, he began to laugh, a hoarse, choking kind of sound.

"That's it, my dear. Fight and make this worthwhile!" He gripped the hilt of the hilt and dragged it from his flesh, uttering a low, perverse moan of pleasure, as though he was actually enjoying the pain. Claire's stomach turned. Wavering slightly on his feet, Sergei spun the knife, flicking little drops of blood onto the floor.

"This is going to be even better than I imagined," he rasped, coming towards her. In pain and now without a weapon, Claire had never felt so powerless in her life. Using the wall for support, she dragged herself upright, trying to turn and run away down the hall. Sergei's body collided with hers as he drove her face-first against the wall. Gripping her wrist, he forced her arm behind her, wrenching it up between her shoulder blades. The muscles in her armpit screamed. .

"Maybe this vay is more fitting for two wolves," Sergei gritted. Out of the corner of her eye, Claire watched him toss the knife into the air, letting it spin a few times before catching it again. The blade descended towards her as she felt a hot, fiery pain lance down the side of her face. She screamed loudly, realizing what had happened.

"Again, my dear," Sergei purred, whipping the knife back across her arm. Claire choked back a second scream, refusing to give him the pleasure. Had she thought herself a good fighter? She couldn't even make him loosen his grasp. Tears of pain and frustration leaked from her eyes as she bucked and struggled against him, refusing to give up. Something wet and hot was soaking into the back of her shirt and she knew the Russian was bleeding heavily from his shoulder wound. Twisting, she repeatedly banged his shin with her heel. She knew she was hurting him, but instead of hissing in pain Sergei groaned deeply against her. The knife retreated from view.

"Make it good for me, my dear," he whispered, reaching for his belt again. Claire heard his radio suddenly crackle to life.

"_This is Lt. Sebastian. We've cleared sectors 1 through 6 and are beginning sectors 7 through 13. Five infected, four males and one female, have been disposed off and are awaiting cleanup. Over."_

"_Copy that. Proceed through Sector 7. The chairman is en route to assist you. Over."_

Sergei spat a curse in Russian. Claire twisted her head to the side, trying to see, but her gaze jerked to the Ivan instead. The beast hadn't moved during their entire confrontation, but now it was shifting, turning its attention to the adjacent hallway. "Target approaching." It said it broken, gravelly English.

Claire froze. She couldn't help it. She'd encountered Tyrants before, but none of them had actually spoken. Snarling, Sergei turned his attention to the Ivan. "Vhat is it? _Him_?" the Russian demanded.

"Bio Organic Weapon." The Ivan appeared to study something through its brightly colored orange visor. "1-505."

Claire didn't understand the serial number, but it was apparent Sergei did. He remained still for a moment, as if weighing his options, and then stepped back. Claire gasped, dragging air into her aching lungs, only to be viciously spun around to face the Russian. His face was a twisted mask of hate and desire, his eyes glowing so fiercely they made Claire's breath stick in her throat. He wasn't like Wesker – the glow was purple, tarnished and faintly iridescent, but not red. However, they burned with that same kind of inner, hellish light.

Claire stifled a whimper as the knife appeared beneath her throat. "Vell, it appears that I've run out of time," said Sergei, obviously angry. "I should slit your pretty throat right now," he traced the knife along her skin, "but it vould be too clean a death. I vould rather he find your corpse in several pieces."

Sergei lifted the knife and drew across his mouth, slicing his tongue and the corner of his lip. Claire gasped and recoiled, sick to her stomach, as he spat a hot mouthful of blood and salvia right in her face. The Russian stepped back, leaving her to grab at the wall in order to keep from falling. Moving with disturbing ease, Sergei flipped the knife around and threw it hard, burying it in the floor at her feet. "I vouldn't want to be inconsiderate," he sneered.

He laughed and went down the dark stairs a little way up the hall, the Ivan obediently following him even though he hadn't given it any verbal commands. Footfalls echoing loudly in the stillness, they faded into the gloom. Moaning, Claire clawed at her face, trying to wipe it clean. A moment later, she was throwing up on the floor, her shaking hands clamped over her stomach. Finally, she slumped back against the wall. Shooting glances down the corridor, as if expecting Sergei to change his mind and come back, she made an effort to swallow the sobs trying to force their way up her throat. He'd been so close… so horribly, loathsomely close.

Claire shuddered, scraping her sticky eyes on her sleeve. Her legs were trembling, and the cut on her cheek throbbed. She wanted to sink to the floor and cry, but she didn't. She'd fought for her life before and knew that sitting down would be a grave mistake, so she forced herself to dig down, tapping her last reservoir. Claire was upset and scared, but she wasn't ready to fall apart just yet. The approaching security teams had saved her from a terrible fate, but it only counted if she didn't get torn to pieces by whatever else was out there.

Shaking, Claire stooped to retrieve the bloody combat knife, but it brought no comfort to her. There was something out there and judging by Sergei's reaction, it was something bad. She had to meet up with the security force and get out of here. Gathering herself, she pushed away from the wall and started down the corridor. The laces of her shoe dragged on the floor, but she didn't stop to tie them. Blood from the knife oozed down the handle and over her skin, and she fought the urge to drop it. Glancing up at the signs, she'd dimly remembered being told to head up Hallway 11. Or was that Hallway 9? Claire reached into her waistband, but the radio was gone, lost when she'd been flung against the wall.

Fighting back a growing feeling of dismay, she picked hallway 11. She thought she heard the report of a gunshot, but the corridors distorted the sound and made it hard to tell which direction it had come from. Swallowing, Claire tasted blood that wasn't hers and quickened her pace. She came to a halt at a T-junction, trying to decide which way to go next. It was then that she heard it, a wet snuffling sound, like a dog with its head in the garbage. A dark blot was in the middle of the corridor about fifteen feet to her left. The first thing she saw was the heavy combat boots, their toes pointing towards the ceiling. Something dark was leaking across the floor towards her. The chewing noise continued.

The hairs rose on the back of Claire neck and she took a step back. The dark blot shifted. Something large and hairy was crouched over the body, cradling the man's head in long, spindly arms as it ate out of the bloody pit where his face had been. Claire smelled the metallic reek of blood and she brought the knife up, still backing away, but her shoes squeaked, further drawing the thing's attention. Slowly, it uncoiled itself from over the body. Stepping out of the shadows into a pool of red light, Claire found herself staring into a wrinkled, evil-looking face, an ape that had been bred in the depths of hell. Blood and bits of tissue stained its shaggy white fur, and its claws scraped on the ground as it reared back slightly, sniffing the air.

Terror plunged a stake though Claire's body. Something told her that she couldn't outrun this abomination and it was too late to sneak by. The realization washed away her paralysis, filling her with a light, cold fire, the same empty certainty she'd felt in Raccoon City when she knew that she was probably going to die. She thought about Chris and Jill, and the friends she had made on the island. Last of all, she thought of Wesker, and was sorry she wasn't going to get to say goodbye to any of them. A chilling snarl rose in the ape's throat.

Planting her feet, Claire got ready to face it. No spoiled city girl, she'd grown familiar with weapons before she'd even been out of high school. Having just lost both parents, it'd been a difficult time, but having a big brother in the army made her feel strong and tough by comparison, and she'd soaked up all things Chris had taught her about guns and knives. The knowledge had saved her life in Raccoon City, and it was going to save her life now.

Gripping the knife, Claire hurled it as hard as she could. Her aim was perfect, there was no error on her part, but the ape shifted at the last minute and the blade sunk into its shoulder instead of in its evil brain. It let out an unearthly squeal and arched its back, scrabbling at the knife with its front paws. Frozen, Claire watched it fall to the floor with a metallic clatter as the wounded ape snarled at her. Its eyes were white and round, filled with pain and hatred. The ape unfolded its legs and sprang forward, crossing most of the distance in a single bound. It hissed, and then lunged for her.

_Bye, Chris,_ thought Claire. She braced herself for the sensation of fangs ripping into her throat.

It never came. The air into front of her suddenly folded and buckled. Something red flashed, and the ape's trajectory abruptly changed. Long arms flailing, it smashed into the wall hard enough to crack it. Broken tiles and bits of concrete rained down on the squealing creature as it tried to right itself again. Mouth gone dry, Claire gasped as a dark, lethal shadow blurred past her and descended on the ape. Gloved hands reached out, gripping the creature's head and twisting it to the side. There was sickening crunch. Silent now, the ape flumped to the tiles and did not get up again.

Heart pounding, Claire suddenly recognized her savior. Knees trembling, she wondered what would happen if she fainted as Wesker rushed at her and roughly grabbed her shoulders. "Are you all right?" he growled, but when she didn't answer right away, he gave her a brutal shake. "Answer me!"

The harsh edge in his voice snapped Claire out of her daze. "I…" She swallowed painfully and tried again, meeting Wesker's gaze. His eyes were blazing with a fierce crimson glow that even his glasses couldn't hide. "I'm okay," she gasped, finally managing to form the words. There was no way to describe the overwhelming feeling of relief coursing through her.

However, Wesker didn't seem convinced. He reached up and turned her head to the side, examining the deep cut on her cheek. Then she felt his eyes rake the gash on her arm and the large amount of blood staining the back of her coat. A low snarl rose in his chest, his hand clenching on her shoulder. Eyes watering, Claire winced and grabbed his wrist. "It… it's not all mine," she managed thinly. "I'm not hurt." _Not badly._

Wesker's gaze raked her up and down. She couldn't be sure, but Claire thought she saw real desperation on his face just before it slid beneath that cold, angry stare. Was Wesker actually worried about her? As impossible as it sounded, something deep inside her knew this was the case. Claire swallowed, trembling with fatigue. She wanted to tell him about Sergei – something told her it was important – but a convulsive shudder ripped through her body, making her dizzy from the receding adrenaline.

"Are you strong enough to walk?" Wesker asked, the implication being that if she wasn't she would be carried.

"No. I mean, yes. I'll walk," said Claire, the survivor in her trying to be strong. She was badly shaken up, but she wasn't helpless. Nodding, Wesker began moving down the corridor, pulling her along with him. Most people would have thought this rather callous, but Claire sensed a little differently. As they walked, Wesker kept her beside and slightly behind him, his hand wrapped around her upper arm, ready to either pull her to safety or hurl her aside should a threat present itself. Claire felt unexpectedly touched by this subtle display of protectiveness. She had no idea how Wesker had found her is this labyrinth from hell, but all she cared about right now was the shameless feeling of safety he provided. She pressed closer to his warmth. Just because she didn't want to be carried didn't mean she didn't want to be reassured.

Wesker wove his way through the corridors with practiced ease, never even glancing at the signs. Eventually, they turned a corner and Claire saw bright white lights up ahead, banishing the creepy red gloom. The loud buzz of people and machinery filled the sterile hallway, bouncing off the bare walls. Squinting against the invasive light, Claire saw armed guards everywhere, either talking on their radios or escorting people out of the labs. A fleet of portable generators had been set up along one wall, providing power to the spotlights and a small field office.

Relief swelled inside Claire's chest. She was alive and safe. She was going to be able to see Chris again. Dragging her forward, Wesker stepped over a tangle of bright orange wires, his shoes crunching on a field of broken glass. The crowd parted and Claire saw a familiar face.

"Claire!" Birkin rushed over to meet them. "My God, are you alright? You're bleeding!"

"It's not that bad," Claire protested, hating to be fussed over, but Wesker pushed her towards a plastic tent that had been erected right in the middle of an adjoining lab. A moment later, he was forcibly extracting her from her coat and pushing her to sit. Claire was too surprised to argue.

"Take care of this," Wesker growled, indicating the wound on her arm. A black man with wire-rim glasses pushed forward and began snipping away at her sleeve, cutting it all the way up to her shoulder. Claire winced as the fabric pulled at her wound. Looking at the deep cut, it seemed to Claire that the pain actually increased. Why did injuries seem to hurt worse when you had an audience? She screwed up her face as the doctor poured antiseptic over the wound, blood washing away down her arm in rivulets.

"You're going to need stitches," the doctor said, prepping a needle.

Claire nodded weakly and made a pointed effort to look anywhere but the work being done to her arm, even if the pricks from the needle weren't anything compared to how much it already hurt. However, the doctor worked quickly and was soon wrapping her arm in gauze. After sterilizing the cut of her face with another dose of antiseptic, he applied several butterfly Band-Aids and handed Claire a cup filled with pills. Without even asking what they were for, she swallowed them all with a glass of water. Coming down from an adrenaline high was not a pleasant experience and she was starting to feel exhausted.

"Make sure she takes a shot of anti-virus, too," Wesker ordered from his place by the door. Claire looked at him, trying to figure out how to phrase her next question. She would rather not have brought it up at all, but she couldn't get rid of the nagging feeling that it was significant somehow.

"I think you should look for Sergei," she said to him, hating having to say the name. Her skin crawled just thinking about the sadistic Russian and what he would have done to her if allowed another few minutes.

Wesker's gaze snapped to her face. "Excuse me?"

"Sergei," Claire repeated. "I… I saw him down in the hallways. He was carrying a big metal case. He told me— I mean, I heard him say he was going to take everything you didn't deserve." _Including me_, she thought with a shudder.

Wesker's eyes burned behind his glasses. Without saying anything, he stormed out of the tent with his teeth bared. Claire was sorry to have him leave, but she prayed he would find Sergei and tear the bastard in half the same way he'd done with that ape: with his bare hands. She held onto that thought as the doctor cleaned her skin with alcohol and injected her with a dose of bright green fluid. For some reason, it left the surrounding area numb.

Rubbing the injection site, Claire wanted nothing more than to get as far away from this place as possible. She massaged her stomach. The pills were already dissolving, judging by the fuzziness in her limbs. After asking her a few questions, the doctor released her. Ruined shirtsleeve swinging, Claire wobbled out of the tent, trying to figure out what she should do next.

"Hey, you. Redfield," someone called. Claire vaguely remembered hearing his voice somewhere before. Turning, she spotted a muscular blond in a red beret. Dazed as she was, she didn't need a degree in rocket science to tell he'd obviously been waiting for her. "I've been ordered to take you to your room," he said, "so if you're ready let's get it over with."

Claire hesitated, in no mood to trust anybody after what had happened tonight. To her utmost relief, however, Birkin suddenly appeared at her elbow. "Claire, are you okay?" He reached out to put a hand on her shoulder. "We were so worried about you!"

Claire forced a pained smile. "I'm fine," she said. All she wanted to do was find someplace private to cry.

"I'm so, so sorry this happened," said Birkin. He looked pale and anxious, and his unruly hair looked as though it had been rented out to family of mice, no doubt because he kept plowing his hand through it.

Claire shrugged. She was upset and angry at having been put through this again, but she tried to keep the emotion suppressed. If she allowed it to boil to the surface, she'd most likely start screaming and hurting people. Why on earth had she come down here anyway? To prove something to herself, or to prove it to Wesker? It was like going bungee jumping and ending up as part of that 2% death statistic. It was cruelly ironic, and Claire didn't find it the least bit funny. She swayed on her feet, numerous aches protesting all over her body.

"Hey, there. Take it easy. Shouldn't you be taking Claire to her room?" Birkin demanded, glaring at Krauser.

"I was about to, sir," the blond man replied gruffly.

Without saying anything, Claire followed the large mercenary through the throng of people. Radios squelched and crackled all around her, broadcasting reports of rescued lab workers and terminated B.O.W.s Reaching the elevator, Claire saw that they'd managed to get it working despite the power outage, no doubt by hooking it up to a generator powerful enough to run the electric grid of small city. Spotlights were blazing all around, giving the hallway a harsh, surreal kind of quality. Another plastic tent had been set up in an adjacent lab. Krauser ushered her over.

A moment later, Claire was standing with her arms out to the side, trying not to breath the fine mist of chemicals pouring over her body. It was like getting showered in industrial strength Lysol, but without the pleasantly fake aroma. Coughing, Claire hastily wiped her dewy hair off with a paper towel as the bottoms of her shoes were sprayed. The tread on Krauser's boots were making the people here want chew their fingernails, but the big man endured with the long-suffering patience of somebody who had gotten used to it. At last, eyes watering, they were allowed in the elevator. Taking shallow breaths through her mouth, Claire decided not to ask if this fiasco posed any threat to the rest of the island.

Nothing could live through that, not even the most ferocious, flesh-eating mutant strain of T-Virus. Wesker had been right about one thing: he wasn't taking chances, since his methods of handling the outbreak seemed to revolve around the philosophy of going after a fly with a bazooka. Claire discretely leaned her hip against the side of the elevator, trying to rest, but the elevator ride ended too soon. Keeping her complaints to herself, she followed Krauser through the hallways, the buzz of activity taking her by surprise.

Armed mercenaries were everywhere, and technicians in casual button-down shirts – the kind with _Inspiron_ laptops permanently glued under one arm – were hurrying to and fro in close-knit packs, fumbling with their Bluetooth headsets. Nearly everybody was carrying some type of flashlight since the hallways were almost completely dark. Claire was reminded sharply of a fire drill, only this was almost as serious as it could get.

A moment later, Claire found herself standing outside her room. Krauser went in first to scan the interior. Claire didn't know what he would be looking for, but she assumed it was procedure. And besides, she was grateful. Leaning against the open door, she tried not to think about being left alone with the demons clawing at the inside of her head, but Krauser returned from his sweep almost immediately. "Here," he said, pulling a crookneck flashlight off his vest. "And take this, too."

To Claire's surprise – and overwhelming gratitude – Krauser tugged his handgun out of his holster and gave it to her. Forcing her hand not to tremble, Claire closed her fingers around the gun, gripping it tightly. It was a sturdy 9mm Glock. A bit heavy, but she'd handled worse.

"I'd ask you if knew how to use it, but I think I'd be wasting my breath," said Krauser. "Thanks for the tip on those open doors."

Claire smiled, even if it didn't reach her eyes. "Thanks. I think."

"Huh. Just try not to shoot any of my boys," Krauser answered. "Unless they're chewing on somebody's arm, that is," he added darkly. His voice was deep and husky, the voice of a man who was accustomed to shouting orders, but despite his scars and huge physical stature, Claire didn't feel uncomfortable in his presence. At least not by much. She felt uncomfortable around everybody right now.

"Now get in there and stay in there," said Krauser.

Claire went into her room, twisting the flashlight as she went. Krauser banged the door shut behind her and left, muttering something about Mr. Death stealing all the good assignments. Listening to his heavy footsteps move away down the hall, Claire nervously panned the flashlight around the room. Her birthday presents were still on the coffee table, so she moved to light the candle. The tiny orange flame tossed moving shadows onto the walls.

Sitting on the couch and drawing her legs up, Claire curled up as tightly as she could, resting her chin atop her knees. A weary undertow was dragging at her, but she was just too anxious and wound-up to submit. She felt hollow, her throat tight with unshed tears, but she didn't let them fall. Why did this always happen to her? What kind of pitiless star had she been born under?

"I told him," she croaked to the empty room. _Arrogant, horrible bastard! I told him this was eventually going to happen!_

When things went wrong for Umbrella, them weren't just accidents, they were utter catastrophes! A small voice in the back of her head told her to be more understanding, since the outbreak had been localized with very few casualties, and unless someone did something unbearably stupid the rest of the island wouldn't even know about it, but she was just too upset to care about the facts. Outside, she heard a crack of thunder. _Right. The storm._

Muffled footsteps passed by her door, the sound sending a thin spike of panic through her veins, but it was somebody hurrying where they were needed. Groaning, Claire huddled further into the corner of the couch. She was tired and covered in bruises, and every sound made her want to cringe, certain that Sergei was coming back to finish her. It was absurd – unless Wesker had caught him, the Russian was probably miles away – but cold facts were of no comfort. Thunder rumbled again, making Claire jump. She put the gun down on the couch beside her before she accidently shot herself in the foot.

_I don't want to stay here,_ she thought miserably. Over the weeks she'd been spending in it, she'd made the room her own: books and magazines, a nice quilt on the couch, roses from the botanical garden in a small white vase, her CD player and a large stack of CDs borrowed from Sherry's personal collection. She didn't know what it was, but she hating being here.

It was like being a kid and waking up with a nightmare. Sure, it was over and couldn't hurt you anymore, but there'd been a lot of times when she'd still grabbed a blanket and headed for the living room to sleep on the couch, or if things were really bad she'd go into her brother's room. But her brother wasn't here, and for the first time in weeks it made Claire feel truly miserable. She would have gone to Birkin's room, but Sherry would just get scared and ask a bunch of unwanted questions. Dr. Connors was an acquaintance, not her mother, and she didn't even know where the woman lived anyway. The same went for Ada.

Claire swallowed, a crazy thought occurring to her. She couldn't imagine how it would help besides offering some kind of twisted psychological refuge, since all rooms were pretty much the same when it came down to it, and it wasn't as if the man would be lounging on his couch anyway, but as somebody else hurried past her door, Claire decided that she didn't care.

Getting up, she grabbed her gun and flashlight, and extinguished the candle. Going to the door, she carefully eased it open, looking left and right. The hallway was dark and foreboding, filled with phantoms and ghostly Russians. Thumbing the safety on her pistol, Claire threw herself into the corridor and began to run. It was crazy stupid, but she didn't care. Finally arriving at the right door, she hastily ripped it open and let herself in. At the last minute, she realized that she needed a keycard to enter, but the power had apparently disabled the lock. Falling into the large room, she threw the door shut behind her.

The warm smell of cologne and leather greeted her like an old friend.

Shaking from the burst of adrenaline, Claire suppressed a sigh. It was a good thing, too, as it probably would have sounded more like a relieved whimper. She didn't know why, but it felt so much safer here, as if the residual threat of Wesker's presence would keep out any would-be monsters. God in Heaven, had she really fallen this far? Behind her, the door creaked slightly. With the power out, the lock wouldn't catch properly. Marching over to the kitchen, Claire picked up one of the chairs and wedged it beneath the doorknob, effectively sealing herself in.

"There," she declared shakily. "Try getting through that."

The threat was mute, of course. If somebody wanted in, nothing short of pushing the entire bed in the way would stop them, but such details were negligible. Chris couldn't really fend off monsters with his bare hands, but that hadn't stopped her from feeling better curled up at the top of his messy bunk bed. Feeling utterly spent, Claire went to Wesker's couch and collapsed. At last, she was finally ready to let herself rest.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: Bet you thought Wesker was going to save her from Sergei, didn't you? Psyche! He's more useful to me alive… for now. Heh, heh. Sorry if I freaked anybody out. It was important to make Sergei as depraved as possible in order to show Claire what REAL monsters are like, as opposed to what everybody *cough*Chris*cough*cough* thinks Wesker is. As you can see, there's no comparison and that's why, even though she's confused and a just little angry with Wesker, Claire still feels safe in his room. **_

_**THANK YOU so much for all your wonderful reviews, anonymous and otherwise! I love you guys! ^_^**_


	17. Chapter 17: Aftermath

Chapter 17: Aftermath

The Queen's Chamber was a large, semi-circular room that housed the island's super computer. Nestled against the far wall was an elaborate computer workstation sporting top-of-the-line equipment – dozens of flat-screen video monitors, massive tower CPUs, and an entire array of hard drives, all of them dead and inert.

Standing behind a senior technician, Wesker's blistering gaze was enough to make the man squirm. Feeling feverish, he loosened his necktie. He'd heard of the chairman's reputation and had no desire to find out if the stories were true, so that meant working fast with absolutely no screw-ups.

"I, uh… ahem," the man cleared his throat sharply. "We found a small device plugged into the main hard drive. We're not sure how, but it was rigged with a sort of delay fuse. At a set time, it delivered a quick pulse to the system, like a miniature EMP, and bingo, Red Queen goes down without so much as a sputter."

"Why didn't the backups come online?" Wesker demanded. Red Queen was equipped with the very best firewalls and viral counter measures in the world, most of them on par or better than what was being used by the Pentagon. If the first system went down, another was supposed to fire up as quickly as possible, thirty seconds being the ceiling, and reroute a lesser-known emergency system codenamed White Queen. The techies had apparently thought to name them after the traditional colors of the Umbrella archetype and Wesker had never disputed their choice. White Queen had only limited control over the facility, namely emergency power and rudimentary security, but it would have been enough to prevent the release of B. in the lower labs. The island was supposed to be able to operate on such a system indefinitely.

"We're still trying to work that out," said the sweating technician. "But I would assume that while the system was rerouting control, the device uploaded another pulse, shorting out the secondary phase. For fifteen to twenty seconds in between shifts, everything's completely vulnerable. I know she's supposed to be shielded against EMPs, but they were supposed to come from _outside_ the island, not from something somebody plugged up her ass."

Catching Wesker's glare, the technician gulped. Being flippant right now was definitely not a good idea and he tried to make amends by offering another piece of important information. "I'm not sure if you realize it or not, sir," he began, mentally cringing at his unintentional disrespect, "but not many people know about the twenty-second lag time between reboots. Whoever did this really knew Red Queen in and out."

Wesker looked like Mt. Vesuvius getting ready to erupt. He'd prepared for a lot of worst-case scenarios and a lot of them had included treachery, having been a traitor himself once, but this was worst-case scenario plus 4. With all the countermeasures he'd put into place, it was literally impossible to interfere with or disrupt Red Queen. At least until tonight. Wesker ground his teeth in anger. _I won't forget this, Sergei. _

Claire had mentioned seeing the Russian in the lower levels – he reminded himself to interrogate her later, as something had seemed a little off about her admission – but in either case her instincts had been correct. Sergei was gone and so was the last remaining Ivan. Also, there were several vials of T-Virus and T-Virus antidote, as well as samples of G and T-Veronica, missing from the high security vault. It made Wesker sick with fury. He'd always known Sergei had harbored animosity towards him, but he'd never suspected this kind of retaliation. Drastically reducing his rank had been meant to limit his power and access to vital systems, but apparently it hadn't worked. Judging by his past history, Wesker had assumed that Sergei knew quite a bit about Red Queen – a throwback to his days sitting at Spencer's feet – but this kind of intimate knowledge, as well as the means and cunning necessary to exploit it, had been an unexpected blow.

_I underestimated him,_ Wesker realized, furious with himself. Dear heart was correct. He was an arrogant, prideful man, and it had cost him. Only his private militia, men whom he'd forced to train obsessively for scenarios like tonight, had prevented things from expanding into a full-blown disaster. Wesker clenched his hands on the back of a chair, his fingers leaving little dents. Sergei was going to pay very dearly for making a fool of him.

Wesker spent the next few hours breathing down people's necks, coordinating the belowground containment units and generally making demands of anybody unfortunate enough to get caught in his line of fire. Around midnight, Birkin finally took him aside and begged him to let his people do their jobs. It was time to let the technicians go to work on Red Queen, an area of expertise where Wesker fell rather short. Sensing that the chairman was going to argue the fact, however, Birkin jabbed a finger at his cell phone.

"Seriously, Al, if anything comes up, you'll be the first one to know. I'll make sure of it."

Scowling, but forced to concede that his colleague was right, Wesker was persuaded to take his leave, much to the relief of everybody involved. The chairman was cold and volatile on the best of days, let alone when his dander was up. On such occasions, his sharp tongue was sometimes enough to make grown men want to cry.

Irritably cracking his neck, Wesker stalked the dark hallways. He didn't carry a flashlight. With his scorching, light-sensitive eyes and his glasses resting midway down his nose, he didn't need one. Wesker briefly considered heading to the barracks, since they would be empty with all the security forces scattered around the island, and slacking his frustration on a punching bag. One drawback to his virus was that it made his rage particularly hard to control, his body trembling faintly with the massive increase in testosterone and natural steroid hormones searing through his veins. He wanted to destroy something, reduce it to dust or a mangled bloody pulp, whichever the case may be.

Growling, Wesker paused at one of the windows, resting his palms on the sill, and worked to control himself. Where he was going, he couldn't afford not to be in control. He needed to speak with Claire for a moment and learn whatever else she might know about Sergei's movements. He doubted she would tell him anything he didn't already know, but it was worth looking into.

_Is that all? Is that all I want to see her for?_

He could picture her in his mind – pale, bloody and badly shaken, but still standing upright with as much dignity as she could muster. The image sent a jolt through Wesker's body and he forced himself to examine it, just as he would with anything he wasn't entirely sure about. He wanted grab her with both hands, examine her wounds for himself, and make absolutely certain that she'd been properly taken care of. His personal code wouldn't allow anything less. She was important to him, and Wesker wanted to make sure she knew it. The urge was at once both alien and oddly familiar to him, and after several moments of thought he finally placed where he'd felt it before.

The discomfort was very similar to how'd he'd felt watching Chris plummet down a cliff after his climbing gear had failed during a training mission, or during the hellish five minutes he'd spent trying to staunch the bullet wound in Jill's leg after she'd run afoul of a teen drug lord. Wesker growled and shook the memories away. Thinking about that life was like trying to cling to something long after it'd turned to dust in your hands, worthless and wasted. It was why he equally loved and hated Claire, because she had the audacity to make him feel again.

Gathering his composure, Wesker pushed away from the wall. It took him just under five minutes to reach her room, but when he got there an uncomfortable knot formed in his chest. Her door was slightly again, the room beyond completely dark. Wesker went in without knocking. The room bore signs of having been occupied a few hours ago, most notably the odor of singeing and the burnt candle on the coffee table, but other than that the room was vacant. Wesker ran through the possibilities. Why wasn't she here? Where could she have possibly gone? His first thought was that she'd left to spend the night with Sherry, but a quick phone call revealed otherwise. His so-called niece was groggy and unnerved from all the activity, but she hadn't seen Claire in over six hours. Wesker hung up without bothering to answer why he was looking for her.

Wesker began to feel the first spikes of alarm, clinical needles telling him that something might be wrong. He bared his teeth. When he caught up with her – if he caught up with her – she was going to get a severe tongue lashing for putting him through this not once, but twice in one evening. But first he had to find her. Wesker had worked in a police department; he knew how people tended to react to shock. They often sought refuge in places that were familiar to them. Wesker doubted even a Redfield would be idiotic enough to head for the greenhouse amidst all the confusion, so where else did that leave? With a violent storm blowing itself out over the island, the pool was out of the question, as were the labs.

And then, suddenly, the answer became very clear. Spinning on his heel, Wesker marched down the corridor. Arriving at his private suite, he put his hand on the door and tried to open it, immediately encountering resistance. Instead of being irritated, however, he felt relieved. Oh, she was going to pay for making him feel _that_, too. Eyes glowing faintly, Wesker had only to apply a fraction of his strength to the door before it began to move in earnest. Inside the room, a chair scraped back against the floor.

In the bathroom, Claire was just stepping out of the shower. After sleeping on and off for the last few hours and not feeling any better for it, she'd finally decided to get clean, unable to stand the stench of chemicals much longer. Being careful of her stitches and Band-aids, she'd scrubbed everything else with the kind of aggression that implied she was trying to wash away more than just the smell.

At last, her skin pink and glowing, Claire had gotten out and was wrapping herself with a towel when she heard it, a dull clunk from out in the main room. Freezing, Claire listened hard. There was a pause, then the chair she'd put under the doorknob began to shift, grating against the floor. Somebody was forcing their way into the room. Claire's heart leapt into her throat, closing off her air. She grabbed her pistol off the toilet seat and backed into a corner. If the intruder looked even remotely dead, or if its ethnicity was in any way Russian, she was blowing it away without a second thought. Eyes locked on the door, Claire pointed her gun directly at it. Her hand was damp, so she forced herself to grip it tightly, releasing the safety with her thumb.

Muffled footsteps sifted into the bathroom. The doorknob began to turn. Claire shrank against the wall as a dark figure stepped partway into the room, looking around for her. For the second time tonight, she recognized the combed golden hair and jet-black sunglasses. Claire released the breath she had no idea she'd been holding.

"Is there a reason you're pointing a gun at me?" Wesker asked, facing her with one hand still on the doorknob.

His intense tone should have sent her crying for cover, but all she felt was relief. Remembering that it was his bathroom she was currently occupying, Claire could have kicked herself for being so insecure. It made sense that Wesker would eventually return to his room. Stupid, stupid! She could have blown his brains out, and Claire had absolutely no desire to find out if he was fast enough to dodge bullets. Gulping, she hastily pointed the gun at the floor. "I'm sorry," she gasped. "I didn't know it was you."

"Were you expecting somebody else to come into my room?" he asked coolly. He regarded her through the steam permeating the dimly lit bathroom. The flashlight Claire had propped on the edge of the sink was their only illumination, casting shadows across his face. "Did you believe it was safer in here?"

Claire scowled at him. "So?" she demanded, daring him to challenge her. He didn't, but his stare grew intensely critical. Silence fell between them, broken only by the sound of water dripping in the shower. Claire nervously reset the safety on her pistol. She didn't need to slip and shoot Wesker in the head. However, it took her two tries to get it right.

"You're shaking," Wesker noted dispassionately.

"Screw you," Claire gasped. "You didn't just experience a taste of hell."

Wesker tipped his head to the side. Damn those sunglasses, but it felt like they were boring right through her. "Correct me if I'm wrong, dear heart, but you've survived through much longer and dire situations," he said, frowning. "Would you care to explain why tonight was worse?"

Claire swallowed, but said nothing. She wasn't going to tell him. She just wouldn't. It was too raw, too personal. Behind his glasses, Claire felt rather than saw Wesker's eyes flick to the wound on her arm, then to the one on her face. Neither showed any signs of laceration or tearing. The edges of the wounds were clean and precise, not from the brutal tearing of infected fingernails, but from a knife. Claire was horrified to see understanding suddenly appear on Wesker's face. Crimson light welled out from behind his glasses.

"What did he do to you?" Wesker growled, his voice vibrating on a perilously low octave.

Claire cast a shocked look at him. How could he possibly have figured it out? No! No, no! A rock wedged itself into her throat, joining the dozen others suddenly weighing down her belly. "What are you talking about?" she asked hastily. Her voice was even, but there was no hiding the shudder that crawled its way down her arms.

Moving so fast she barely saw him, Claire cried out as Wesker flashed across the bathroom, seizing her by the shoulders. "What did he do?" Wesker roared, shaking her back and forth. Horror and fury honed the lines of his face into razored edges, and his eyes were hot sparks of light. Frightened, Claire wanted to scream, or wail, or fall into Wesker's embrace, but all she could do was stare. Wesker's hands suddenly moved from her shoulders to the sides of her face, thrusting his fingers through her wet hair.

"Claire," he gritted her name through clenched teeth. "Whatever it is, you WILL tell me."

Harsh as they were, his words struck a nerve. _He called me Claire. Not Miss Redfield. Not even dear heart. Claire. _She trembled openly, her composure beginning to crack. Unable to face the naked fury in Wesker's eyes, Claire turned her face away. "He… he found me in the corridors," she whispered, the memory making her want to vomit. "I guess he heard me on the radio. Sick, depraved son-of-a-bitch. He cut me and he tried…. to do other things to me."

Wesker's body tensed. "Go on," he urged, grinding the words.

Claire gulped for breath, focusing on the fibers of Wesker's cashmere turtleneck. Expensive but practical, like most everything the man owned. "I didn't have a chance," Claire whispered, tears brimming in her eyes again. "But he heard some stuff on the radio and decided to leave me for that ape. He tried to, but he didn't actually _touch_ me, I swear to God!"

There. She'd said it. Finally looking up at Wesker, Claire desperately tried to read him. Why would he care what had happened unless… wait, that was the point, wasn't it? He _cared_. Wesker actually cared about her; it was obvious even if it was unspoken. The knowledge made Claire weak and watery on the inside, her knees threatening to give out and send her sprawling to the damp floor. "I… I thought I was okay," she croaked, the tightness in her throat giving way to actual pain. "But I'm not."

With a savage groan, Wesker suddenly pulled her against his chest, his powerful arms wrapped tightly around her. Shocked, Claire instinctively grasped at his shirt. "It's alright, dear heart," Wesker growled thickly. "It's alright. You were right to come here to me."

Claire's throat constricted, her eyes blurred and burning. She'd lost track of how many times Wesker had grabbed her, but he'd never injured her, never taken a knife to her face or attempted to force himself on her, and in that moment Claire gained a sudden shard of understanding. No matter how arrogant or inconsiderate or domineering, Wesker wasn't a monster like Sergei. He was a flawed person, but he wasn't evil or sadistic, and that was all she had ever needed to know.

Claire sagged against him and buried her face in his shirt, clinging to his strong shoulders. Wesker was holding her so tightly it was as though he was trying to force her into his chest. It made it a little hard to breath, but she didn't care. Squeezing her eyes shut, she was forced to take shallow, shuddering gulps of air, her tears finally spilling over to darken Wesker's shirt. The scent of Wesker's body enveloped her, the intense heat of his chest radiating fiercely through his shirt. She could feel his silent desperation in the way he held her, but after a long moment of standing in his embrace, Claire sniffed as quietly as she could and picked her head up, not wanting to appear weak or clingy. Wesker allowed her to step back, but did not let go of her shoulders. Looking at him, Claire saw that Wesker's clothing was noticeably damp. She flushed, embarrassed. "Sorry," she whispered.

Wesker brushed her apology aside. "Did you bring any clothes?" he demanded.

Claire pointed to the jeans and torn blouse she'd tossed in the corner.

Wesker shook his head. "Put something of mine on. There, on the shelf," he said, leaving the bathroom to give her some privacy.

Feeling drained, Claire roughly toweled herself off and selected a black t-shirt and a pair of black flannel pants from the shelf. The garments were too big for her, and she had to fold the pant legs up several times in order to use her feet. She picked her scrunchie off the floor, sniffed it, and then dropped it in disgust. Her hair was obviously going to stay down for now. Leaving the gun on the toilet seat, Claire picked up her flashlight and went into the next room.

Wesker got up from the couch when he saw her and went into the bathroom to change his clothes as well. Exhausted, with the heat of the shower rapidly dissipating from her body, Claire slumped into the corner of the couch, propping the flashlight on the table so it provided some light to the rest of the room. A moment later, Wesker came back wearing a fresh t-shirt, the hem tucked into his pants. Wondering how he could even see with those sunglasses on, Claire watched as the man knelt in front of the fireplace. In the past century it would have burned wood, but some modern architect had fitted a metal stove into the hearth, perfectly sealing it up. Nowadays, the fireplace burned gas.

Taking an unused book of matches off the mantle, Wesker struck one, filling the room with the pleasant aroma of sulfur, and reached in to light the pilot. There was a rush of displaced air. The power outage obviously hadn't affected the propane lines. Shaking out the match, Wesker straightened to adjust the thermostat. Claire heard something click deep within the mechanism and a moment later, the stove filled with flames. They jumped and danced, licking at a pile of fake logs. For some reason, it made things feel even more dreamlike and surreal. Claire reached over to turn off the flashlight. No need to waste batteries.

Sitting on the couch next to her, Wesker swung his long legs up onto the coffee table, one arm on the back of the cushions. He seemed perfectly relaxed, but there was a muscle ticking in his jaw. He reached down to grasp at his cell phone, then seemed to change his mind. His gloved fingers beat an irritable, restless tempo on the cushions.

Claire swallowed nervously. "…How bad it is?" she asked, deciding to take the risk.

"Bad enough," Wesker answered, staring into the fire. "The outbreak has been contained, so you don't have to worry about the island, but Sergei's little stunt cost me a dozen highly-trained men and more problems then I can count right now." Claire was a little surprised. She'd thought tonight's fiasco had been the result of human error. Now she realized this wasn't true.

"Sergei left the doors open, didn't he?" Claire asked, hating the Russian.

Wesker grunted. "Either he planned to use the escaping B.O.W.s to cover his escape, or perhaps he hoped to cause an outbreak that would eventually encompass the island. Either way, it'll be days before the damage is cleaned up."

"Aren't you supposed to have security protocols for this kind of thing?" Claire demanded. She hadn't meant for her voice to sound so accusing, but her emotions were still a little raw. She listened intently as Wesker gave her a brief explanation as to what had happened with Red Queen. Claire blinked at him, feeling queasy. "It shouldn't have happened," Wesker hissed, clenching the arm of couch. "I made it impossible!"

_Obviously not so impossible,_ thought Claire. She wanted to point out the old axiom of building a better mousetrap and creating a better mouse, but taking cheap shots just wasn't her style, even where Wesker was concerned. He'd planned for the worst, but tonight had been the worst plus 2. If anything else had gone wrong, his hired guns would be evacuating the island right now. Claire looked back to the fireplace. She wasn't going to forgive him right away – it was his sordid little empire that made this kind of hell possible – but there was no need to rub salt in the wounds.

Propping her elbow on the couch, Claire dropped her cheek into her hand and stifled a yawn. She'd thought the leftover adrenaline would get her through the night, but the shower had apparently washed away more than just the smell. Eyes drooping, she stared at the fire, watching the mesmerizing orange light it cast on the ground. Claire's head began to fill with those strange, disjointed visions that appear on the edge of sleep. Wesker's arm moved, his hand slipping off the back of the cushions to gently cup the back of her neck. Claire stiffened, unsure.

"I told you that I'm not a good person, dear heart, but I would _never_ harm you. Not intentionally," Wesker added, his deep voice low and unrelenting. "Besides, I'm reminded of something you once said to me. I'm trying to help. Or are you going to tell me you don't need it?"

Claire stared at him, surprised. "Pompous prick," she muttered.

"Stubborn Redfield," Wesker shot back, as if this explained everything.

Claire's smile was watery, but totally genuine. Too tired to protest what was being offered, she gave up on the mental gymnastics and leaned across the couch, resting her head on Wesker's shoulder. Relief coursed through her, warm and radiant. "Don't get any ideas," she mumbled, getting as close as she could without clinging. "This doesn't mean you're off the hook."

The corner of Wesker's mouth twitched. "Of course not," he agreed.

Claire sighed as his arm went around her, holding her close. Closing her eyes, she let herself drift, basking in the sensation of being protected – not that she was some Southern Belle, thanks very much – because on some level and for whatever reason, Wesker _did _care and that knowledge was worth everything right now. A few minutes later, Wesker shifted to look at the beautiful woman asleep on his shoulder and anger boiled inside him like something hot and poisonous. Nobody was allowed to lay hands on his dear heart. Nobody.

_You'll pay for it, Sergei, _he thought viciously. _So help me, you are going to pay very dearly._

Feeling deeply possessive, Wesker put his other arm around Claire, adjusting her to his liking so they both were more comfortable. Having the right to be a god meant he could rise above many restrictions of normal morality, but gods also had a disturbing weakness for falling in love with mortal women. It would have been amusing if it didn't make him feel so vulnerable. He heaved a heavy sigh.

Queen, consort, business partner, lover… she had the potential to be all those things and more. Claire was definitely worth more than just his time. She was worth his heart, what remained of his humanity. She shifted in her sleep, unconsciously drawing closer to his reassuring warmth and strength. _That's right, dear heart. You belong here with me_, Wesker thought with a smirk, savoring her soft weight. Satisfied that she was taken care of, he stared into the fire, his thoughts finally turning to revenge.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Finally, some real Claire/Wesker fluff! I know you guys were waiting all week for this, so here's hoping it lived up to every one of your expectations! What's that? Two whole chapters without an obvious cliffhanger? **_**GASP.**_** Say it isn't so! ;) Anyway, I made a new illustration on DeviantArt, too. I've wanted to do that scene since **_**forever**_**! WARNING: Side effects may include minor drooling. Please move your keyboard to a safe location. **

**Hope you enjoy, and see you next week! ^_^**


	18. Chapter 18: La Ville Lumiere

Chapter 18: La Ville-Lumiere

Claire awoke to ashen light. Opening her eyes, she was momentarily disoriented. It took a moment of staring at the crackling propane stove to remember exactly where she was and what she was doing here. Fully awake now, Claire felt a soft weight on her head, something gently moving through the strands of her hair. She was lying sideways on the couch, her head pillowed on… oh, God, was she really in Wesker's lap?

Claire hastily craned her neck to look up at him. Wesker smirked at her, continuing to lazily stroke her hair. "Sleep well, dear heart?" he asked, amusement shimmering in his voice.

Claire knew her cheeks had to be somewhere close to glowing. She sat up with as much dignity as she could muster and felt a troublesome flash of regret. Having him run his fingers through her hair had been dangerously pleasant, and she wished he'd keep doing it. _No!_ _Bad brain! Bad!_

"Morning," Claire muttered, brushing her snarled hair back from her face.

"Morning," Wesker answered, stretching a little. Claire heard a peculiar crackling noise as his spine realigned itself. _He stayed with me all night,_ she realized, stunned. She'd expected him to slip away as soon as she was asleep. Pulling out his phone, Wesker began to check his messages, giving Claire an opportunity to use the bathroom. Splashing her face with water, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. The cut on her cheek had scabbed, but it still hurt, as did the one on her arm. Lifting the sleeve of her t-shirt, Claire examined the puckered red gash, wondering if it was going to leave a scar.

_Dirty bastard,_ she thought, clenching her teeth, but contrary to the bruise-like smudges under her eyes, she'd slept through the night without a single nightmare. Thinking about Wesker and how he'd been stroking her hair, lovingly almost, a feeling of warmth spread outward through Claire's stomach. Shutting off the water, she noticed her necklace draped over the towel bar. She'd taken it off last night, not wanting to get it wet. Picking it up,_ she_ refastened the pendant around her neck, realizing that she'd missed its weight. While combing her hair with her fingers, Claire left the bathroom. In her absence, Wesker had moved from the couch to the desk. The top drawer was open, and a box of bullets was sitting on the blotter.

Claire watched him replace the rounds he'd expended the previous night, pushing them into the clip with his thumb. She'd always known he'd carried a gun, having felt it under his jacket on numerous occasions, but this was the first time she'd actually seen it. Finished reloading, Wesker pushed the clip home with a well-oiled snick. He obviously took excellent care of his firearms, and Claire couldn't say she was surprised. What surprised her was the make and model of the gun.

_He still carries that, even when he could have any gun in the world? _Claire looked at him, stunned, but as Wesker turned to her she hastily shut her mouth, knowing that it would be better not to bring it up. A moment later, the gun was safety stowed in his shoulder holster.

"What are you going to do?" Claire asked faintly.

"First I'm going to check on the repairs being done to Red Queen," said Wesker, understanding what she meant. He put the box of bullets back in the drawer. "Everything from here on in is going to be a serious matter of time and effort. "

Coming around the desk, Wesker approached Claire until she had to tip her chin back slightly to keep him in view. He was a good seven or eight inches taller than her, but for some reason the height difference didn't feel like a challenge today. "In either case, dear heart," he continued, "the island won't have power for several days, so going to the greenhouse would be a waste of time."

Claire nodded. She suspected as much. Thinking about the few hundred people on the island, she wondered what kind of cover story Wesker was going to concoct to explain the power outage. Four-day weekend for everybody? Hiking up her borrowed pants, Claire was just about to ask him when the door burst open and something blue rushed into the room. Wesker's hand flashed beneath his jacket.

"Uncle Albert! Have you seen Claire? She was supposed to be down in the labs, but she's not in her room and the power's still out and… Oh!"

Sherry's pretty face was distraught, her cornflower eyes filled with panic. Seeing Claire gaping behind Wesker's outstretched arm, obviously wondering how the man had gotten in front of her so quickly, the younger girl ran forward and caught her in a hug. "Oh, Claire, I'm so glad you're all right!" she gasped. "I was scared somebody had eaten you!"

Eyes wide, Claire awkwardly patted the younger girl's back. Wesker let go of his gun, his expression somewhere between irritated and amused. "As you can see, Sherry, Claire is quite safe," he said dryly. "Thank you for remembering to knock."

Sherry hastily sprang back, leaving Claire gasping for breath "I'm sorry, Uncle Albert! I didn't… I mean I forget… I'm sorry." The teenage blonde went pale save for two scarlet blotches of color high on her cheeks.

Chuckling, Wesker moved towards the door. "Well, considering the circumstances, I think I can excuse you. Make sure you take an injection as soon as possible, dear heart," he said, switching his attention to Claire. "Your infection may have been aggravated by last night's little fiasco, and I don't need a relapse taking up my time. Is that clear?"

Claire nodded. She'd given herself a few injections under his supervision, but the prospect of doing it alone made her nervous. She mentally told herself to suck it up. Wesker's gaze lingered on her face for a moment, and then he turned to leave. When they were alone, Sherry turned back to Claire, her mouth a round O of surprise. She looked as though she was about to press the subject, but then she saw the ugly gash peeking out from beneath Claire's sleeve.

"What _happened_ to you?" she exclaimed, eyes wide.

"A monster," said Claire, covering the stitches with her hand. They left Wesker's room so she could pick up some clothes. Wearing her familiar velour tracksuit, Claire went into the bathroom where Sherry couldn't see and pulled out the syringes Wesker had put in the medicine cabinet. Uncapping the needle, Claire hesitated. Inside the reservoir, the serum was quivering.

"Claire?" Sherry voice came through the bathroom door. "You okay? Do you need any help?"

"No. I'm good," said Claire. Locating the vein on her arm, she carefully forced the needle in. To her surprise, it wasn't much worse then when Wesker was wielding the syringe. Draining the serum, Claire recapped the needle and disposed of it, pulling her sleeve back down. Feeling better now that it was over with, she went out to rejoin Sherry. Holding a flashlight in the dimly lit room, the girl looked understandably worried. "You okay now?" she asked.

Claire nodded, her stomach gurgling audibly.

"Let's get something to eat," said Sherry. "The power's out, but we don't need it to make noodles." She smiled nervously. "Or we can try grilled cheese if you don't like that," she added.

Feeling famished, Claire assured her that even dog kibble would be acceptable. Eyes wide, Sherry stared at her for a minute, obviously trying to figure out if the older girl was serious. Claire knocked Sherry's headband askew. "Noodles would be great," she said, rolling her eyes. "Seriously, you don't even have a dog."

Sherry looked relieved.

The girls made lunch and spent the rest of the day either playing board games or making paper dolls, complete with paper dresses and jewelry. While Sherry tore apart her desk looking for a set of markers, Claire went to the window and opened the curtains. The storm had finally blown itself out, but the ocean continued to churn against the island. The seagulls that normally congregated on the ramparts were nowhere to be seen.

"Found 'em, Claire!"

Turning away from the window, Claire went back to sitting on the floor. Coloring her doll's hair with a red marker, Sherry was alternating between being frustratingly passive and constantly asking Claire for her approval, to nearly bursting with enthusiasm. Claire knew it would probably get old before long, but for now she was just thankful for the company. Around noon, Birkin staggered in looking exhausted. Sherry jumped up to ask questions, but they were gently dismissed. After freshening up in the bathroom and waving distractedly to Claire, Birkin visited the kitchen just long enough to throw lunch together and grab a can of Pepsi. With the haphazard sandwich clenched in his teeth, he was gone again within ten minutes.

Sherry looked at Claire. "Did things really get out down below?" she whispered. "I know the "official" reason for why the power went out, but… well, you know."

Claire snorted without humor. "Yeah, I know. There's the reason and then there's the real reason," she said. _Especially around here._

"Well? Did they?"

"Not now, Sherry. Okay?"

Sherry hastily closed her mouth. "Okay," she said quietly, averting her eyes. "You don't want to talk about it, I get it."

Claire sighed and went back to giving her doll a blue dress. There was more to the problem than just not wanting to talk about it. Until yesterday, she'd been so sure that she'd worked everything out in her mind – Wesker, his island, her outlook on all of it – but despite smiling for Sherry and laughing at all the right times, Claire felt confused, maybe even a little sick deep inside. Last night she'd actually let herself think about what it would be like to work at Umbrella, to earn the respect falsely lauded on her head, but today the idea made her feel hollow. Worse, it made her feel stupid.

_What would Chris think of me?_ Claire blanched, knowing exactly what he would think. But… but he didn't know everything, did he? Umbrella was capable of some truly terrible things and Wesker's moral compass was decidedly rusty, pointing more northwest than north, but here _was_ some good here. Like those blurry red-and-blue 3D pictures, the effect only became clear if the viewer was wearing special glasses. _Of if you have the dubious honor of being a moth that's fallen in love with the fire._

Claire picked up the scissors and began cutting her doll out with short, angry strokes. Thinking about Wesker caused a mixture of feelings to rise within her, a muddied torrent of confusion, fear, and growing desire. She thought about what he'd told her about snake venom, how it could be used to stop trauma victims from bleeding to death. The road to hell was lined with good intentions, but some part of her wanted to say that is wasworth it.

_Great. Now I'm starting to sound like Wesker. _Claire picked up a yellow marker. _Bastard._

She felt like she was floating in a vacuum, a lost astronaut surrounded by the infinite mystery of space. In between the glittering stars and multicolored planets lay endless darkness, filled with mysteries she didn't have the answers to. Claire thought about everything she'd learned about Wesker and Umbrella – the good _and_ the bad – and she clung to that thin filament, gripping it tight with both hands. She wasn't ready to let go, but wasn't ready to pull herself towards the shuttle, either.

Heaving a sigh, Claire looked down at the doll she'd been making, frowning. It wasn't that he was only slightly more evolved than a stick-man, or that his left arm was slightly longer than the other, it was the fact that without even knowing it she'd painted him with blond hair and two tiny pinpricks of red for eyes. Sherry glanced over from where she was working and sniggered. "Looks like Uncle Albert."

"Whatever," said Claire dryly, but when Sherry wasn't looking she quietly picked up the doll with red hair and pushed the two together. If love was blind, Claire had a feeling she was never going to see properly again. _Because I do love him, don't I? Oh, God, I am in so much trouble. _

The day dragged on. Outside, the sky turned from slate to pitch as the sun set. Birkin came back late and went into the bedroom to crash. Through the open door, Claire could see him lying facedown on the bed, his feet hanging off the end. He was still wearing his shoes. Sharing a look, she and Sherry got up as quietly as possible and left. The girls took up residence in Claire's room instead, where Sherry decided that a sleepover was in order. They ate a quick supper and, with little else to do, went to bed. Claire was just as glad.

The next day passed in much the same way, as did the next. The oppressive weather cleared, leaving the ocean blue and chilly. With the power still out and people temporarily laid off work, the island slipped into a state of dormancy. Claire saw Wesker very little, but on the fourth day from the incident, he dropped by her room late in the evening.

"I hope all this inactivity hasn't gotten to you, dear heart," he drawled, but Claire knew what he really meant.

"I'm fine. Thanks for asking," she said quietly, her chest tight. Looking at Wesker, she couldn't help but think he looked a little haggard. She held the door a bit wider. "Want to share a salad?"

Wesker looked at her, and while he hesitated at first, he was soon seated at her tiny bistro table. Claire made him a cup of instant coffee and started making that salad. She didn't know what he liked, but she figured he could just pick around what he didn't. She shredded some lettuce with her hands and added a lot of olives and cherry tomatoes, as well as what was left of the chicken she'd had for lunch the other day. Sitting opposite Wesker, Claire slid a bowl in front of him. He was staring into the far corner, obviously brooding, but the scraping noise seemed to bring him out of it. Shifting, he turned his attention to her.

"Thank you, dear heart," he rumbled, the ghost of a smirk darting across his face.

_He's worried about something,_ Claire realized, picking up her fork. _And twenty bucks says he hasn't slept in days._ For some selfish reason, the knowledge made her feel better about the man's character, or lack thereof. She'd thought he'd brush the incident off as a minor setback, a hiccup in the otherwise smooth turning of cogs. However, this didn't seem to be the case. Picking the pot up off the stove, Claire poured herself a cup of coffee as well. She and Wesker ate in relative silence, exchanging only a few sentences, but the lack of conversation wasn't as awkward as it should have been. And Claire learned something interesting about Wesker.

He detested olives.

About a week from the incident, the day dawned bright and clear. Power had been restored late last night and Sherry was frantically trying to get several days worth of late homework done before Monday, so it was unlikely that she'd be back before nightfall. Left to her own devices, Claire was looking at her swimsuit, wondering if the pool would be habitable, when she heard a soft knock at the door. Curious, she got up to answer it. To her surprise, her visitor turned out to be Ada.

"Hey, there," she said, smiling. Today she was wearing a knee-length red sweater over clingy black leggings and stiletto heels in red patent leather. "Some week, huh?"

"What? Oh. Yeah, some week," said Claire, wondering why the Asian woman was here. Not that she didn't like Ada – in fact, she liked her well enough to tentatively call her a friend – but that didn't mean she completely trusted her. "I've been bored to death for the past two days," Claire added, inviting Ada into the room. "I can't tell you how grateful I've been having Sherry around, but she can get a little…"

"Overzealous?"

"I was going to say _clingy_, but yours works, too," said Claire. "So, uh… what's going on with you?"

"Actually, I came by to ask you something," said Ada, casually buffing her nails on her sweater. "How would you like to take a little vacation, get off this island for a few hours? Just you and me. It'll be a girl's day out."

Claire was surprised. "Run that by me again, " she said. "A vacation to _where_?"

"Paris," said Ada, relishing the look on Claire's face. "The ferries just started up again yesterday, and I haven't had my hair styled in over three weeks. It's a disaster!" Claire eyed the Asian woman's sleek black hair. She couldn't imagine it even getting a cowlick, let alone being a disaster. "I figured you'd be pretty bored, and I need an accomplice," Ada continued, her dark eyes twinkling with laughter. "So what do you say?"

The cogs in Claire's were turning furiously. A trip? _To Paris_? She been in the city three years ago, but she'd been on a mission then. It'd been nothing more than an objective, a goal. Paris was renowned as a city of romance, womanizing, and a destination for couples on their honeymoon – and least in her mind – and she wasn't quite sure what to make of it being offered so casually. That was another thing she'd yet to fully get used to. On Mont St. Michel, glamour was a part of everyday life. In spite of that, however, excitement bubbled past Claire's disbelief. She couldn't help but suspect that Ada had an ulterior motive, but she didn't think it was anything harmful. Ada was crafty and underhanded, but she wasn't a malicious person. And then there was Wesker. Claire wondered if he'd be angry if she left the island without his high-and-mighty permission.

_Oh, who cares?_ She thought, grinning. Wesker wasn't the boss of her. She'd go where she liked when she liked, and she didn't care if he popped a blood vessel in the meantime. But then again…

Memories of his concern for her floated to the surface and Claire's grin faltered slightly, her belly churning. Okay, fine. She'd compromise. She wouldn't ask him for permission, but she _would_ leave a note telling him where she'd gone. It was only fair. She did it for her brother all the time.

"You sure you're not going to mind?" Claire asked.

Ada laughed. "Why do you think I asked you to come along? Because I despise your company? Please. You're one of the few people on this island I would even consider spending a day with, anyway. Now," she glanced at her slim black watch, "the ferry leaves in about a half-hour. You want some help picking an outfit?"

Remembering the last time Ada had helped her get dressed – and on the suspicion that there was makeup in the Asian woman's purse, a sleek black thing that could easily have held a good-sized paperback – Claire shook her head. "I'll manage, thanks. You, uh… you want to wait outside, or do you want me to meet you somewhere?"

"I'll wait outside," said Ada.

Claire went to sift through her meager closet. After a few minutes, she'd picked out a pair of jeans and a soft sweater, figuring it was going to be a little chilly on the mainland. After brushing her hair and making an attempt to clean her sneakers, she sprayed a little perfume on her necks and wrists. Satisfied that she'd pass in the civilized world, Claire wrote Wesker a note and left it on the table.

Ada was waiting for her in the hallway, elegantly seated on the windowsill. Claire felt the Asian glance down at her sneakers, her eyes glittering as though she was laughing at a private joke. Claire frowned at her. "And just what's wrong with my shoes?" she demanded. "I don't like heels. They make me uncomfortable."

By her expression, Ada clearly thought this was pure madness, but she didn't press the subject. Following the Asian woman down the hall, Claire dryly wondered if she'd be comfortable traipsing through backwater European forests wearing nothing more than a red cocktail dress and heels. If so, it wouldn't surprise her. Going down a flight of stairs, they encountered a knot of people coming out of the cafeteria. Claire noticed Birkin trying to juggle a bag of chicken wings and a mega-sized cup of Pepsi.

"Hey, Mr. Birkin," said Claire, waving.

"Huh? Oh, hi!" said Birkin, hastily swallowing a mouthful of chicken. He had several bits of tissue paper stuck to his chin where he'd cut himself shaving. "How you been holding up? Good? I'm glad to hear it." Birkin sniffed the air and grinned. "And just where are you ladies heading off to today? You smell so good it should illegal."

"Paris," said Ada, dramatically rolling her voice so the name came out like _Pear-ree_.

A look of comprehension dawned on Birkin's face, washing away his momentary confusion. "Oh, right. Well, you two have fun. And Ada," he fixed the Asian woman with a look that was surprisingly stern, but not unkindly. "Keeps your wits about you. If anything happens to her, he won't have any qualms about pinning it on your head."

Ada grimaced. "You think? Come on, Claire," she said, resuming her walk. "Willie-B needs some quality time with his lunch."

"I heard that," Birkin growled.

"You were meant to," said Ada as they rounded the corner. Claire gave the Asian woman a quizzical look, confused by the odd exchange. "What was that all about?" she whispered.

"What it's always about: Wesker. Me, myself, and whatever belongs to me," said Ada. "Forget about it."

Claire wasn't sure that she could. Birkin didn't seem surprised that they were going to the mainland and that was a little odd, but it wasn't the only thing. Was Wesker worried about her being off the island with Sergei on the loose? Was the Russian really that sick? Claire shuddered and forced the thought from her mind. She'd never actually seen Ada in action, but the woman had survived Raccoon City, too, and that made Claire feel a little safer going out with her. If it came down to it, two against one, even against a bastard like Sergei, seemed like pretty good odds.

Ada led her out of the main facility and onto the cobbled streets. A cool breeze was blowing and there were puffy white clouds in the sky. Along the sides of the street, poplar trees shivered and danced. Their leaves had just begun to turn gold. Claire took the opportunity to soak up the sights. A gleaming trickle of water flowed through the gutters, swirling around fallen leaves and debris, and gurgling down into miniature storm drains. The clean, but heavy smell of wet dirt hung in the air like a gentle perfume.

After a five-minute walk, Ada had led them to the back of the island. Here the narrow street opened up, revealing a shallow bay. It was small and roughly crescent shaped, with a broad wooden dock. A knot of people – no doubt victims of cabin fever themselves– was boarding the ferry, a squat white thing with brass railing. Here and there, security guards watched the proceedings with hard eyes. Claire got in line behind Ada. The tide gurgled and slapped on the pylons beneath her feet. A few people were standing at the end of the dock, trying to entice the gulls with bits of sandwich. The large white birds were completely fearless, waddling straight up to their benefactors and eating at their feet.

The line moved steadily forward. Claire noticed a women standing at the gangplank. Potential passengers first had to show their ID and then submit to a quick temperature check. Claire was mildly taken aback. She realized that people infected with the T-Virus must show a higher temperature than normal, otherwise what would be the point? She'd scoffed at Wesker's security procedures when he'd tried to explain them to her, but upon seeing them for herself, she had to admit that they were good and responsible.

A few minutes later, she and Ada passed through the checkpoint and boarded the ferry. Going to the front of the boat, Claire rested her forearms on the railing. After a few minutes of waiting, a bell clanged, the plank was pulled back, and the graceful little ferry moved out of the bay, small engine chugging valiantly. They started out slow, but soon the front of the boat rode high in the water, leaving a rooster-tail of foam in their wake. Water sprayed Claire's cheeks, moistening her skin.

"So, where are we going first?"

It took them about twenty minutes to reach the mainland. Claire's first glimpse of the French shoreline was a sandy beach, and beyond that a prosperous town. At the docks, small fishing vessels were bobbing at the end of their moorings. As they got closer, Claire saw that they were actually heading towards the mouth of a large river. Ada took out a small compact and began reapplying her lipstick, a pair of large-frame sunglasses fashionably perched on her head. Claire rolled her eyes.

The ferry docked smoothly. Everybody was jostling to be among the first to get off the boat, so they hung back slightly, in no hurry to get pushed into the Seine. The town was very quaint, teetering on the line between modern and old-fashioned. Bringing them to a small parking garage, Ada strolled up the aisle until she came to a sleek red Jaguar convertible. Claire's jaw dropped.

"This is _yours_?" she demanding, gaping.

"What can I say?" Ada laughed, digging in her purse for the keys. "Umbrella pays me well."

Getting in the car, Claire almost groaned aloud. She was glad she wasn't driving. Starting the engine, Ada smoothly backed them out of the garage. The ride through town was short and uneventful. Looking out the window, Claire noticed that all the signs were in both French and English. Piloting through a traffic circle, Ada swung the car into the westbound lane and accelerated, following the course of the river. According to the signs, Paris was just over fifty miles away.

Claire leaned back in her seat, a dismal thought occurring to her. Ada almost certainly wanted to go shopping at expensive boutiques and salons, and having literally been abducted from her bedroom, Claire had regretfully forgotten to grab her wallet on the way out. _Guess I'm not buying much_, she thought, embarrassed. If she could find her banking branch in the city, then maybe she could retrieve some cash. If not, she wasn't letting Ada buy her anything more expensive than lunch. Things were bound to get awkward, as they always did where money was involved, but Claire resolved not to let it spoil her day.

Ada reached for the radio. "You like music?"

They cruised along the country highway, laughing and singing along to American hits like Alice Cooper and other bands that, while not familiar to Claire, were pretty popular in Europe. With her hair flung around by the wind, Claire was glad that she'd come. It was an immense relief not having to worry about her feelings for Wesker, or ponder the ethics of Umbrella. Miles of countryside flashed by, passing acres of farmland and rolling hills turned purple with an abundance of lavender. After over an hour of driving, however, the Parisian skyline appeared on the horizon.

It was just like Claire imagined it would be: cobbled streets filled with people on bikes, wine and baguette bread stowed in handlebar baskets, and tightly clustered buildings with brick facades. A multitude of old cathedrals dotted the city, all with worn stone gargoyles perching on buttresses far above the street, watching passersby with their grim, frightening stares. Everything was old and exotic, and Claire wished she had more eyes. She'd never considered Paris particularly special, but being here _made_ it special somehow. The Jaguar swept through an intersection, passing a fountain in the middle of a circular pond, and into a massive park filled with tulips, the Tuileries Gardens, according to a nearby sign.

Claire sighed in unabashed delight. As Ada piloted them through a wooded section of the road, speeding southward, the Eiffel Tower appeared on the left, jutting skyward like a spear. Claire observed it with a mixture of interest and dry humor. Her brother had always regarded the Tower as an eyesore and she'd agreed with him, but now… well, how many girls got lucky enough to see the Eiffel Tower? Like the city, it was special just because she was here to see it.

"Having fun yet?" Ada teased.

"Oh, shut up," said Claire, grinning.

The Jaguar skimmed through another intersection, turning onto a wide cobbled road lined with picturesque little cafes and clothing boutiques. Claire felt another pang of mingled embarrassment and regret as Ada pulled up to the curb. Laughter floated down the street, the voices of passersby alternating between the warm, silky tones of French and English. Dumping the Jaguar's keys in her purse, Ada turned to Claire, opening her mouth to say something. Claire beat her to it.

"Now I just want to make one thing clear," she said, flushing a little. "You're not going to buy me anything more than lunch, okay?"

Ada threw her head back and laughed, leaving Claire feeling a little miffed. "I mean it," she said hotly. "I don't want you to—"

"You really are something, you know that? Do you think you came along just so we could get into an embarrassing conversation about who's picking up the tab?" said Ada, shaking her head. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a crisp white envelope. "Here," she said, handing it to Claire. "Compliments of Wesker and Umbrella."

Everything about the envelope screamed red alert. Claire didn't take it, knowing instinctually what was in there. "Ada, I said no and I mean no," she said, gritting her teeth. "It doesn't matter if it's your money or Wesker's money, I'm not spending it. It's going to be way too expensive!" She waved at the boutiques.

Ada choked back another laugh. "Well, it's a good thing that it's _your _money in here, now isn't it?" she said. "Now take the envelope before I wedge it up your nose and/or buy you everything on the boulevard. And you don't want that, do you?"

Claire leveled a scowl at her, realizing that she wasn't going to win this argument. Taking the envelope, she felt a familiar square of plastic inside. _Great. Now the blond bastard's giving me his credit cards. _She slit the envelope open with her finger. _Well,_ _I'm not going to use it. I'm… what the hell?_

The debit card was obviously attached to Swiss bank account, but the name marked on the card wasn't Wesker's. It was Claire Redfield. The words glared at her, embossed letters winking gold in the sunlight. _Oh, so now he's made me my own little spending account, huh? _Indignant, Claire looked up at Ada, but the Asian woman cut her off.

"I know what you're thinking, Claire, and you're wrong," she said. "According to the ID card you've been wearing clipped to your shirt, you've technically spent two months as an employee of Umbrella. No, let me finish. And during that time, you engineered the most valuable flower in existence. I'm sure you know what the chairman's using it for, don't you?"

Ada smiled at Claire's horrified look. "That there," she pointed at the debit card, "is the commission a high-level biochemist would have received for the very same achievement. It's _your_ money, Claire. Fair and square, no strings attached. Believe me, it doesn't even come close to making you millionaire, but it's not stingy, either."

Gobsmacked, Claire looked down at the card. What kind of money was attached to it? Five figures? Six? _Seven?_ Claire felt as though she'd been electrocuted and melted to the Jaguar's expensive leather seats. It would have been so easy to believe that Wesker was just trying to buy her off, but instinct told her that this wasn't the case.

"Ada, that rose was an accident!" Claire managed. "I mean, I'm grateful and all, but I don't deserve it!"

Ada snorted. "No? Please, Claire, I've heard every rumor the island had to offer, so I'll tell you this much: It happened because you made it happen. No more, no less, so figure out where that leaves you and get it over with. I've known Wesker for a long time. Long enough to know that in his mind, you're either worthy of his time or you're not. Period."

Claire's stomach fluttered and began to ache. Before Mont St. Michel, her image of Wesker had been based solely on what Chris had told her, and before Raccoon City the messages had been somewhat mixed. On Monday, the captain of S.T.A.R.S had been a cold, unfriendly taskmaster who made his team to run laps until they were heaving their guts out in the bushes. On Thursday, that same man had firmly – and successfully – defended her brother against a firestorm of alleged police brutality when Chris had gone berserk on a serial murderer that preyed on redheaded young women.

"Of course, he told me that if I did it again in the near future, he'd suspend me so fast my head would spin," Chris had cheerfully reported, a Pall Mall smoldering absently in one hand. Claire could remember him telling her the story. Turning the silver debit card around in her fingers, Claire noticed small note was clipped to it, bearing a four-digit number in Wesker's narrow handwriting. She swallowed, acutely aware of the diamond resting in the hollow of her throat. S.T.A.R.S had been comprised of the best of the best, a force handpicked by Wesker himself, and his version of Umbrella seemed to adhere to the same credo. Why would the man's inner circle be any different? In fact, the standards for admission would be even higher, going beyond simple lust or desire, or any other short-lived measure of value.

_Is that why he wants me over people like Ada? Because somehow I proved myself worthy of his __**love, **__not just his time? _The thought made Claire feel deeply strange and achy.

"Now," Ada popped the Jaguar's door and stepped out onto the sidewalk, "are we going to sit here and debate all day, or are we going to go shopping? In case you haven't noticed, this is Paris!"

Her hesitation gone, Claire got out of the car. They went to a beauty salon first because according to Ada, trying on clothes was better when you looked your best. The Asian woman had her nails done dark metallic red with fashionable black and gold accents, while Claire – who really didn't care either way – got a simple French manicure. After getting their hair washed and styled, it was on to the boutiques and an endless array of clothing, perfumes, and shoes. Claire tried a few on just for the sake of it, but always put them back. As she'd told Ada, unless Wesker planned on carting her off to another fancy party, she didn't do heels. Ada shook her head as though she were a lost cause and went up to the counter to pay for no less than three pairs.

Just as they were leaving, however, Claire spotted a pair of heavily embossed cowboy boots at the bottom of the rack. Eyes shining, she hurried over to try them on. The hardened Italian leather slid over her feet and calves like butter, and Claire couldn't help a small gasp of delight. The boots fit perfectly, flexing with her as thought she'd owned them for years. Ada nodded approvingly. "Those are you all over," she said.

Claire couldn't agree more and, after several moment agonizing indecision, handed the clerk her card. She never felt so strange in her life, paying for something worth more than she typically made in a month. Walking out of the store into the bright sunlight, she sat on the curb and eagerly put them on while Ada stuffed her numerous purchases into the trunk of the Jaguar. The boots were so nice, Claire was almost afraid to wear them, but she did, carefully packing her comfy old sneakers into the box and putting them in the car. After that, the women visited a cosmetics store filled with rows of brightly colored, aromatic merchandise and sexy French underwear with about as much square coverage as a postage stamp. Claire outright refused to be talked into buying lipstick no matter what shade it came in, and she wasn't even going to _think_ about the lingerie, let alone purchase it. She did buy a bottle of shampoo and a few scented bars of soap, however. That and the boots was all she wanted, and more then she'd imagined being able to buy.

Finally, they went to a small café and had lunch. Laughing along with Ada, Claire concluded that while the Asian woman was a fashionista to the core, she wasn't obnoxious or unpleasant to be around, not like the cheerleaders Claire had been forced to put up with in high school, or that stuck-up bitch Electra or Excella, or whatever her name had been. Sipping her coffee, Claire genuinely thanked Ada for bringing her along.

"Are you kidding me? I've had more fun with you than I've had in years," said Ada. "Seriously, though, it's a good thing you didn't buy heels." She smiled around her latte. "Picture a drunk giraffe and you'll know what I'm talking about."

"Oh, piss off." Claire flicked a wadded up napkin at the Asian woman's head. The woman laughed as she dug in her purse for a tip to leave the waitress. On the street, a snub-nosed red car zoomed by in a rustle of leaves. "I've got one more thing to show you before we head back, okay?" said Ada.

"Sure, okay," said Claire.

Getting back in the car, they turned onto the main street and headed deeper into the city. The buildings got steadily wider and taller, moving from quaint restaurants and tourist traps like the Louvre to large, high-end businesses and more industrial-looking edifices. Through the Jaguar's windscreen, Claire could see a lofty porcelain-white building in the distance and judging by the turns they were making, Ada was heading straight for it. Curious, Claire thought it was a museum or maybe a theater, but the building proved to be neither. As they navigated into the parking lot, she finally got a chance to read the sign posted out front, St. Michel's Hospital & Research Center. And if the familiar red-and-white archetype was any indication, the facility was owned by Umbrella lock, stock, and barrel.

_Why is she taking me here? _Claire felt a disturbing and all-too familiar ripple of dread.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Now you didn't really think you'd escape those pesky cliffhangers for long, did you? ;) Not much action in this chapter, but fear not. A major turning point in the story is coming very soon, but I need a few weeks to catch up in my writing. Sorry! I know you don't want to hear that, but work's been keeping me pretty busy. *cries* Anyway, I'll be back in two or three weeks, I promise.**

**THANK YOU so much for hanging in there with me. I truly appreciate your patience and understanding! You guys are beyond awesome. ^_^**


	19. Chapter 19: the Choices We Make

Chapter 19: the Choices We Make

"_All those little things you tell me,_

_Could bear enough to show me,_

_That we're gonna make it through the time._

_I found out in the middle of a heartbeat,_

_And I know that I'm doin' right…"_

Finding a space under a small maple tree, Ada pulled the Jaguar to a stop and killed the engine. Gazing up at the hospital, Claire made no move to get out of the car. "Why are we here?" she demanded.

"No reason," Ada quipped, stepping out of the car and hiking her purse over one shoulder. "Come on, Claire," she said, sensing the younger woman's hesitation. "You're perfectly safe with me, I promise. You heard Birkin. Wesker would tear my guts out if you got hurt on my watch. We're just going to see something."

Frowning, Claire did not like the sound of this at all. The hospital's reception area looked more like the lobby of a Fortune 500 company, with leather waiting chairs, potted banana trees, and four different kinds of marble lending themselves to a vaguely tropical ambiance. Claire's new boots clacked floor as Ada went up to the main desk. The receptionist greeted her with a pleasant smile.

"_Bonsoir_," she said. "Can I help you?"

As the women talked, Claire let her eyes travel over the outdated _National Geographic's_ and fashion magazines, wondering what on earth Ada wanted her to see. This whole thing stank of a ploy.

"Here. Put this on," said Ada, handing her a laminated visitor's pass. Claire clipped it to her sweater and followed the Asian woman into the elevator, noticing that the receptionist followed them with her eyes, an undisguised look of interest visible on her face. Claire shifted nervously. It was the same stare she'd received at Wesker's party.

She didn't know how many floors they traveled up, but it felt like a lot. When the elevator doors swished open again, Claire found herself facing a long skywalk between two partitions of the building. Going to the window and looking down, Claire saw a large open courtyard constructed in the heart of the building. It was filled with small trees and flowers, even a fountain, all of it surrounding a central support tower. Seeing that the hospital was built around the courtyard in sections, like the segments of an orange, Claire had a feeling that if she'd been able to view the building from above, its layout would perfectly matched the Maltese cross of Umbrella.

"Pretty impressive," said Claire, surprising herself by how much she meant it.

"It should be. We're in the largest Umbrella-owned hospital in the world," said Ada, coming up beside her. "It's got the best doctors, the best patient care, the best of everything money can buy."

"Uh-huh. So does Wesker pay you to be his walking infomercial?" Claire sniped, her sarcasm coming back full swing.

"Sometimes," said Ada, flashing a winning smile. They continued down the corridor, past a small nurse's station where a petite brunette was watching television. A voice speaking in rapid-fire French floated out of the speakers. The nurse glanced up just long enough to read the visitor's passes clipped to their shirts, then went back to her soap opera.

At the end of the hall, Ada stopped at room 303. "Okay, Claire," she said in an undertone, as if not wanting to be overheard. "Just so you're not hanging out on a line, the girl we're going to see was born with something called cystic fibrosis. It's—"

"I know what it is," said Claire sharply. "Why on earth do I have to see this?"

"Just because," said Ada, opening the door and ushering her into the room. A large stack of books and magazines was on the table, and a soft blue comforter was folded at the foot of the bed. There were a lot of flowers and gift baskets on the nightstand, many of them tethering balloons with _Get Well Soon_ written across them in bold, colorful letters. Unsure what she was supposed to do, Claire's attention was drawn to a man sitting at the table. He was tall and angular, with small tortoiseshell glasses and sandy hair gone grey at the temples.

"Hello," he said, getting up from his game of solitaire. Confusion showed plainly on his features. "I'm sorry, but is there something I forgot to do? My visitor's pass is right here." He paused, looking worried. "Is this about Beth?"

"In a way Mr. Morgan," said Ada, reaching out to shake the man's hand. "I'm Ada, and this is Dr. Claire Redfield."

Claire hastily put her hand out to shake, wondering why she was being introduced like this. "We just came by to check up on your daughter's progress," Ada continued, but the man seemed as though he was barely listening.

"Claire Redfield?" he whispered, staring at her. His eyes were vivid cornflower blue, and Claire felt an eerie pang of recognition. She struggled to put a finger on why this man felt so familiar. "_The_ Claire Redfield?"

"Uh, yeah. I suppose so." Claire laughed nervously.

Mr. Morgan swallowed, forcibly composing himself. "I'm honored to meet you, Miss Redfield. You have no idea how grateful I am for what you've done for my daughter. Thank you." He gripped her hand between his own, hard enough for her to feel the calluses on his palm. "_Thank you._"

"Y… you're welcome," Claire stammered, his unadulterated happiness striking the pit of her stomach. Utterly bewildered, she tried to come up with a better response, but what was she supposed to say to _that_? She'd never seen this man in her life, let alone his daughter. Claire shot a helpless look at Ada. If she didn't know any better, she'd have sworn that these people liked putting her on the spot just to watch her squirm.

"So, uh, how are things with… with Beth?" Claire fumbled, improvising. When she got out of here, she was going to deck Ada and then run her over with the Jaguar. Several times. She listened carefully to what Mr. Morgan had to say, trying to figure out what was really going on, when she heard several voices out in the hall, a man and a woman. A moment later, the door opened and two people came into the room. Claire was so startled she nearly took a step back.

_Oh, God. Sherry?_

No, not Sherry – the girl was older and taller, and her face wasn't as delicate – but the resemblance was uncanny: the same silky blond hair (only this girl worn it cropped short, as though it'd only recently grown back) and the same eerie blue eyes. Claire's gaze jerked back to Mr. Morgan. _They're his eyes, too_, she realized, stunned. Now that they were both in the same room, she could see the family resemblance.

"Oh, hi." Beth Morgan sounded a little surprised to find so many people in her room. She was thin and pale, and obviously recovering from an illness, but her eyes were full of life, gleaming with the same child-like passion Claire had gotten used to seeing from Sherry. "Dad?" she questioned, looking at her father for an explanation.

"Beth, this is Ada and Dr. Redfield. They've come to see how you're doing," said Mr. Morgan. "Dr. Redfield, this is my daughter and her husband, Travis."

Beth's eyes knifed to Claire the same way her father's had done. Travis put his hand out for Claire to shake. "Pleased to meet you, Doctor," he said earnestly. He was built like a professional athlete, holding Beth around the shoulders as though she were made of glass. The gesture was shockingly protective, and Claire's heart chimed with an eerie resonance. "Same here," she said, shaking his hand.

Mr. Morgan pulled out a chair. "Let's sit down, shall we? Can I get anyone some coffee?"

They sat at the small plastic table, pushing the books out of the way. Ada started the conversation with the practiced ease of a diplomat, and Claire felt as though she could hate the woman for it. Mr. Morgan opened the window and brought everyone coffee from the vending machine down the hall. The papery curtains flapped in the breeze, stirring up tiny motes of dust that floated in the sunlight. Claire thought she could smell something warm and sweet.

"When Beth was born, they told us she'd only live until she was eighteen," said Mr. Morgan, his voice husky. Claire tried her best not to cringe. She took a sip of her coffee. It was lukewarm and bitter. "Now she's twenty one and look at her, as beautiful as ever and married, too," Mr. Morgan continued, smiling with agonizing fondness.

"_Dad_," Beth whined in a chiding tenor. "I met Travis two years ago," she explained to Claire. "I told him I… well, he knew I wasn't going to be around forever, but he still wanting to marry me, even though his mother thought he was an idiot. He promised me that we'd spend whatever time I had left together, so we bought a house and got a dog and…" Beth cleared her throat, blushing faintly. The topic didn't need elaboration.

"I felt so lucky that I got to experience being married before… you know," she said. "And then my Uncle William called and told us about a new serum he'd been working on, the one that you made. He said it was only experimental, but…"

"But we decided to take the risk," said Mr. Morgan, nursing his coffee. "By then, she was on dialysis and everything."

Beth grimaced. "Dad made the doctors wake me up so they could ask me if I wanted to try out the new medicine, and I said yes." She gazed at Claire, her eyes shining. "Then I started getting better. A few weeks later, I could breathe without the machines. They told me that the serum was actually fixing my lungs, not just covering up the symptoms like my old medicine did."

After a moment's hesitation, Beth reached across the table and held Claire's hand, held it as though it meant everything. "Look, I… I don't even know how I'm supposed to thank you, but you gave me my life back. I thought I was going to die, so I promise you I'm going to treasure every second you gave me." She blinked back tears. "Travis wanted to marry me even knowing I was going to leave him in a few years, and now…" Beth's hand unconsciously moved to her belly. "Thank you. I can't tell you much that means to me."

"To both of us," Travis added quietly.

Claire wanted to cry. Her heart felt like a wounded bird frantically beating its wings against her ribs. All at once, things became painfully clear. Morgan must have been Annette Birkin's maiden name, so Beth was Birkin's niece from his wife's side. That's why she and her father had such an eerie resemblance to Sherry. They were family, after all. And knowing that his niece was dying, Birkin had offered her Wesker's hybrid serum. _That's_ why Beth's lungs were healing. _That's_ why she was getting stronger. Claire twisted her hands in her lap, struggling to find something, _anything_ that was wrong with what she was being told.

The hospital was owned by Umbrella, so it stood to reason that several of Beth's attending doctors knew exactly what they were giving the girl and what could go wrong if the T-Virus went volatile. Claire's gaze moved over the IV pole next to the nightstand and wasn't surprised to see that the fluid inside the reservoir had a slight green hue. Not enough to stop the process, but just enough to keep it in check. Claire wouldn't have been surprised if the entire facility was privy to Umbrella's true nature, or if the lazy rent-a-cops eating donuts in the downstairs break room were actually trained mercenaries.

Claire swallowed a the lump in her throat, thinking about what Wesker had said to her during the party, about how the Nightwish serum posed very little risk if used in a controlled, professional environment. His words were an unrelenting echo inside her head. _Power is neither good nor evil, and if that power could be harnessed to save lives, wouldn't you want that?_

Looking at Beth, a tight ball of pain formed inside Claire's chest. "Oh, Beth," she choked, standing and throwing her arms around the other woman. "I'm so happy for you! I really am."

Beth looked staggered by the unexpected display of emotion, especially coming from a complete stranger, but she put her arms around Claire and hugged her back, her teeth sunk into her lower lip to keep it from quivering. Smiling to herself, Ada leaned back in her chair as Mr. Morgan furtively wiped his eyes under the pretense of adjusting his glasses. From outside the window came the soft tinkling of chimes, perhaps from a restaurant across the street, or perhaps from the garden that the room overlooked.

Later, Claire heard them again as she crossed the parking lot of St. Michel's and sat on a bench underneath a red sugar maple, the sunlight casting dappled shadows on her face. Claire slumped against the weather-beaten wood, her brain sagging under the awesome weight of what she'd learned. From somewhere in the distance, she heard the wail of a police car, its discordant two-tone siren momentarily splitting the air like a knife. On the street, dead leaves and shiny cellophane wrappers went spinning away in a sudden breeze. Claire felt Ada sit down beside her, the woman's exotic perfume washing over her in a pleasant rush, along with something else, the sugary tang of ice cream. Turning her head, Claire realized that Ada was offering her a sundae cone, no doubt purchased from the tiny bistro across the street.

Dazed, Claire took it without complaint. "He put you up to this, didn't he?" she demanded. Neither of them had to ask who _he_ was.

"Of course," said Ada. Leaning back, she took a bite of her own ice cream. "He approached me about it about two weeks ago," she continued, " but I doubt he even remembers with what's been happening on the island."

Claire looked at her ice cream. The folded waffle cone was topped with a fluffy mound of vanilla ice cream and crushed almonds. She really didn't want it, but she began to lick it anyway, the cold treat melting on her tongue. She felt herself going back through the months since she'd been brought to Mont St. Michel. When she'd first awoken her find herself in Wesker's clutches, she'd rather have died instead of owing him her life, but all that felt like a lifetime ago.

Wesker had told her things, _shown_ her things. All of them had been small and insignificant at the time, like gleaming shafts of light extending into a dark room, but they had built up, growing stronger and more compelling, revealing the truth in glimpses, like flash in a pan. Wesker was dangerous, charismatic, and filled with limitless ambition, as was the company he controlled, but Claire realized that her narrow view of black and white, good versus evil wasn't nearly as clear-cut as she'd once thought. There were many shades of grey in between.

Wesker wasn't a good man, he'd told her that much and she believed him, but Claire felt in the deepest part of her soul that he wasn't a bad one, either. He was cold, arrogant, domineering, and often callous, but beneath all that was a fiercely protective, passionate nature. Ultimate power was undoubtedly his primary goal, but she couldn't help but feel as though the man genuinely believed that it was his duty. She recalled their conversation about the roles of gods.

"They didn't build Rome by having meetings. They did it by destroying those who opposed them,_" _Claire muttered, swallowing her ice cream. She wasn't quite sure if she agreed with that philosophy, but she knew Wesker would. Ada looked over at her, obviously wondering why she was talking to herself.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing. Hey, quick question. How big is Umbrella really?" she glanced up at the large hospital. "I mean…"

"How much power does Wesker really have? Good question." Ada took a bite of her cone. "After Raccoon City, a lot of Umbrella's standing pretty much fell apart in America, so Wesker's been building it back up in Europe, buying out smaller corporations, establishing hospitals like this one, things like that. I won't get into the details, but he's been purchasing land all over the world, too."

"Building his own little kingdom," said Claire softly.

"Yep. Mineral rights, air space, you name it. And he's not all about hospitals, either. There's a few branches developing weapons and defense tech, all for Umbrella, of course. And before you ask, it's not for backdoor profits. Wesker runs things tighter than government black ops."

"And you're okay with that?" Claire asked, unable to help being curious.

"Are you?" Ada retorted, her eyes glinting, but Claire didn't answer. _Couldn't_ answer.

Ada leaned back and crossed her legs at the ankles. There was a wet leaf stuck to the bottom of her shoe. "Don't repeat this, Claire," she said quietly, "but compared to what Spencer was like, Wesker's a knight in shining armor. The old man was sick in the head. He used to have adolescent boys kidnapped and imprisoned so they could be milked for a hormone needed to create Tyrants, and that's just one example of many."

Claire cringed, thinking about Steve. All he'd wanted was to escape Rockfort Island and have a pretty girl to love him. She hadn't seen very much of how Wesker ran things down in his labs, but something told her that he wouldn't do something like that. Wesker may be indifferent to the whole affair but he wasn't needlessly cruel. She knew that much from personal experience. He would secretly have these hormones siphoned off from boys who came into his hospitals for blood work or flu shots, but imprison them? Never. And was it lesser of two evils? Definitely. Acceptable? Claire wasn't sure.

Claire felt a dribble of melting ice cream splash onto her hand and she moved to lick it off. She would rather have had Umbrella disbanded and never spoken of again, but as Wesker had pointed out, knowledge was power, and the only thing able to defeat power was _more_ power. "Why do you think he does it?" she asked Ada.

"I don't have to think. I know," the Asian woman replied. "I asked him the same thing when he took over Umbrella, and do you know what he told me? He said that every day humanity comes one step closer to self-destruction, so in his mind…"

"He's not destroying the world. He's saving it," Claire finished, echoing Wesker's exact words to her. Ada raised an eyebrow, but nodded. "Exactly," she said. "I see you two have been chatting."

"Since the day I landed here," said Claire dryly. She adjusted the napkin around her cone and tried to collect her thoughts. What if Wesker's vision truly _was_ the best thing for the world? It wasn't as if Claire was blind to the state of it; civil wars, famine, disease pandemics, depleted ozone, millions of acres of precious rainforest slashed to the ground, hundreds of birds suffocating and dying in oil spills. The list went on and on in a terrible litany of destruction.

Claire thought about the dead snakes and their venom, about her precious Nightwish rose, and about Spencer's dark legacy, the T-Virus. It could destroy people's lives in a heartbeat, or it could help them breathe again, if wielded by the proper hands. Claire really wanted to fall back on that old maxim that absolute power corrupts absolutely, but how long did it really take for that to be true? Months? Years? _Centuries_? Sure, Rome fell… after a thousand years of glory. Empires fell when they became corrupt, only to have a new one rise from the fertile ashes they left behind.

The breeze picked up again, warm with the last hint of summer. Claire unconsciously gripped the diamond around her throat. It felt like a talisman of her current situation, her current choice. There were so many things she didn't know about Wesker, so many things she couldn't hope to control, but did it matter? Life was an unpredictable affair. On any given day, taking her motorcycle out could result in getting crushed by a drunk driver, or loosing her balance on a turn and crashing into the guardrail. Sometimes, the danger of living on the edge was what made it fun.

_You and I could be great together, dear heart, and I think you know it._ Oh, yes. She knew. She finally understood what Wesker had been trying to show her during her forced stay with him. _He wants Umbrella to be the bulwark of humanity, because he really believes the entire world would be a better place with a god watching over it. And he wants me to be there with him._

Finishing her ice cream, Claire wadded the sticky pink napkin into a ball, looking out across the parking lot. An idealist at heart, she couldn't care less about being a goddess, or a queen – the only power she wanted was the power to make a difference in the world, to truly help people. It was a little embarrassing, but she'd once thought about founding her own organization and calling it Terra Save, or something like that. But wasn't love a power, too? The strongest, most dangerous kind of power there was, of that she was now certain.

Claire stood up and threw her napkin in the garbage. She didn't know what it was going to be, but she wanted to buy Wesker some kind a trinket, something to show that after everything she'd learned, she was ready to take a few tentative steps towards acknowledging this strange "relationship" of theirs. After today, she was going to stop digging her heels in and just enjoy the dance, so to speak. And what she felt now, it felt good.

"Hey, Ada… when's Wesker's birthday?" 

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Hey Howdy Hey! Well, I'm back and although I haven't got nearly as much done as I wanted, I'm extremely pleased with how things turned out. I wanted Wesker's motives to be, you know, Wesker-ish - world domination and all that - but with Claire putting them in a good light. And I know this chapter's not particularly long or earth shattering, but everything comes to fruition next week. You know that big turning point we talked about? Yeah, I'm excited, too! I reached over 200 reviews while I was gone and I just wanted to extend a great big THANK YOU to everyone who's taken the time to comment. Happy Halloween everybody! ^_^**

**Fun Factoid: Depending on the translation, Beth either means "breath of life" or "god's promise". **

**Heh. Works on so many levels. ;)**


	20. Chapter 20: All Things Considered

Chapter 20: All Things Considered

"_I'm in love with the darkness of the night,_

_I'm in love with all that's out of sight._

_I'm in love with the magic of the new,_

_And the darkness loves me, too."_

Claire spent a long time debating what kind of gift she could get Wesker. What did you give the man who had everything? She tried to imagine him in a pair of brand-new Stewie Griffith boxers and – no. Revolting. A box of chocolates and coffee mug that said _Long Live the King_ were going to look pretty dumb compared to the diamond necklace he'd gotten for her birthday, so at long last she gave up the search. After all, it was the thought the counted, so she purchased him a large green card with gilt gold letters. Returning from Paris, she kept it hidden for several days, until it was actually time to give it to him.

Sitting on her couch with a pen, Claire tried to think of what to add to the preprinted verse inside the card. She doubted Wesker would even read it and if he did, she doubted a bunch of emotional mush would matter to him, but she needed to get it off her chest. This was what you did for people you cared about, even if the circumstances were bizarre, so Claire thought long and hard – she wanted this to be a bit more than just a birthday card – and wrote slowly, thinking about every word. She was almost done when her pen suddenly went dry.

Claire gave it a shake. "Oh, come on!"

She milked a little more ink out of it, but not nearly enough to finish what she was writing. Picking up her journal, Claire made a bunch of massive, looping circles in an attempt to get the ink flowing again, but the pen refused to be coerced. Frowning, Claire rooted around for another, but she knew before she started that she wasn't going to find one. She'd only needed one pen for her journal and since she didn't need to fill out reports or do homework, and since the greenhouse was always well supplied with anything she needed at the time, why bother having a bunch of them in her room?

Claire heaved a little sigh. This was so typical. Slipping the card into its envelope, she left her room and made a beeline for Wesker's. She'd been planning to go over and put the card on his desk anyway, so why not kill two birds with one stone? Even so, however, Claire found herself hoping that she wouldn't run into the man. She'd thought of giving him his card in person, but decided against it. Better he find the stupid card and read it when she wasn't around, so she wouldn't have to suffer the embarrassment of having to explain that she was trying to be nice. _Nice_ and _Wesker_ typically weren't mentioned in the same sentence.

Stopping at his door, Claire knocked and waited, relieved when there was no answer. She used her ID card to get into the room and made straight for his desk, eager to finish and get out of here. On the horizon, the sun had just started to touch the ocean, almost like it was disappearing below the water. Wesker's drapes had been left open, allowing a deep crimson-pink light to spill into the room, casting dark shadows on the floor. Claire pinched the chain on the lamp and turned it on. A lot of folders were stacked neatly on Wesker's desk. Here and there, an overturned CD gleamed with a myriad of rainbow colors. Moving carefully as not to disturb whatever system of organization Wesker had in place, Claire searched for a pen. To her growing irritation, however, she didn't find one.

"I swear, the man's got OCD," she grumbled, pulling the drawer open. She half expected to see the coveted pens neatly arranged by size, or color, or brand, but Wesker's drawer was filled with more paperwork. She carefully shuffled through it, finding a collection of _Sharpies_ and a highlighter, and disposable fountain pens with built-in ink cartridges. Curious, she picked one up and tested the nib on the inside of her arm. The ink came out thick and smooth, and Claire wanted to groan at the luxury of it, but it would stand out too much against the ballpoint scribbles she'd put in the card. If she could help it, she wanted things to match as well as possible.

Replacing the fountain pen, Claire continued her search, realizing that most of Wesker's handwriting had been made using pens like the one she'd just tried. She was a bit surprised. Fountain pens seemed a bit too romantic for Wesker, but then again, a lot of designers and engineers preferred them for their massive ink supply and their ability to switch between thin and thick lines. Practical, but distinguished. Yeah. That was Wesker all over.

"Jesus Christ, isn't there anything _normal_ in here?" Claire exclaimed, brushing aside a box of paperclips. She jammed her hand through all the papers, hoping that a modest ballpoint had somehow escaped Wesker's scrutiny by migrating to the back of the drawer. She felt a roll of Scotch tape, and something else… a hard, squarish lump. Unable to imagine what it might be, Claire pulled it out. It was a battered brown leather wallet, its worn seams a testament to a life spent in service. It seemed incongruously plain for Wesker, so maybe that was why Claire picked it up, curiosity getting the best of her. The wallet felt unusually heavy for its size, and she soon discovered why.

The wallet contained a weighty, stainless silver badge. Inside the decorative laurels, the words _Raccoon City Police Department_ surrounded the familiar S.T.A.R.S. archetype, a round medallion containing three stars and the words _Special Tactics and Rescue Service_. Claire's hands shook. _Oh, dear God. Is this… is this really?_

Opposite the badge was an ID card bearing Wesker's photo and signature, along with the simple declaration: _Such may make Arrests and Carry Firearms in Accordance with Federal Law_. Claire stared at Wesker's unsmiling photo, his ice-blue eyes piercing her to the core. Somehow, the color did not surprise her. She looked through the rest of the wallet, finding other things like forty-two dollars in crumbled bills, a receipt from an ATM, and a folded square of paper. Nervously, she pulled it out and unfolded it. Looking at what it was, however, she almost wished she hadn't.

The photo was heavily creased from the years, but the subject matter was clear. Claire's throat tightened. It was a picture of the S.T.A.R.S. office, with its mismatched oak desks, tottering stacks of equipment and paperwork, and general feeling of organized chaos. Claire recognized her brother immediately and her heart began to ache. Chris had smiled much more often back then, before the fear and worry had etched itself into his face. He was holding a polished gold trophy, his arms draped around the shoulders of his teammates, Jill on the right, Wesker on the left.

The ache in Claire's chest became real pain. Wesker was _smiling_. Not his usual smug grin or disdainful smirk, but a real smile. His arms were folded only halfway, as if he'd been wrenched into the picture the moment it was taken, but he was leaning into the spontaneous hug, not trying to escape from it. And there was something else in his expression, too. It was _pride._ Another moment and his hand would have settled on Chris' shoulder, of that Claire was oddly certain.

Turning the photo over, she saw that someone had written the date. _July 21, 1997_. One year before Arklay. Gulping back a sudden lump in her throat, Claire turned the picture back over again, gazing at Wesker's smile. How could that be the same man who'd betrayed his team in cold blood? Was it just acting, a cruel veneer to cover his true intentions, or had Wesker actually cared? Tears welled up in Claire's eyes. Now that she looked, she realized that the wallet wasn't soiled with ground-in dirt as she'd once thought.

It was blood.

Dried, rust-colored blood lay in the deep groves of Wesker's badge and stained the edges of the photo Claire's was holding, indicating that it'd been folded carefully inside the wallet when the damage had happened, not after. Claire swallowed back the pain in her throat. The wallet had been with Wesker the night the Tyrant had killed him, soaking up the torrent of his blood while he lay dead on the floor. But why was it here in his desk? Claire didn't peg Wesker as the sentimental type, so why would be keep such an obvious memento? Was it some kind of sick trophy?

Claire shook herself. No, the stain inside the wallet didn't match where she'd found the photo, meaning that it'd been taken out and then put back in long before she'd found it. In fact, it was probably taken out and looked at dozens of times. Chills danced along Claire's skin, her stomach twisting. At that moment she heard an electronic chime and the sound of the door opening behind her. Gasping, she spun around to see Wesker come into the room already starting to remove his lab coat. Catching sight of Claire, Wesker paused, surprised, then his eyes slid to what she was holding.

She was terrified to see a violent blaze of crimson light behind his glasses.

"Is this what you do when I'm not around, go through my personal belongings?" Wesker demanded, his voice edged with menace. Claire didn't think she'd ever seen him so pissed off, his presence forcing her back against the desk as he tore – no, _ripped_ – his property from her hands. She half expected him to tear the photo in half, so she was shocked to see him carefully fold it up and shove it back in the wallet, glaring at her with an expression that bordered on apocalyptic. Claire swallowed hard, forcing herself to stand her ground.

"I wasn't going through your things," she tried to explain. "I… I wanted to give you a card for your birthday and my pen ran out of ink, so I was looking for a new one." Flushing, she gestured at the open drawer. To her utmost relief, the card she'd wanted to give him was still in her hand. "I'm sorry!"

Wesker's eyes lingered on the card for a minute, then snapped back to Claire's face, his hands clenched into fists. Claire held his gaze, refusing to be a coward and look down. She'd thought she was ready to accept – to forget but not forgive – what had happened with S.T.A.R.S. even without knowing the whole story, but now, with the old wound rudely torn open and bleeding between them, Claire realized that she'd just been fooling herself. She'd never be at peace until she knew the truth.

"What really happened at Arklay?" Claire whispered, her hands gripping the edge of the desk. Wesker's teeth bared in a snarl, but she forced herself to keep going. "If you don't want to tell me, I swear I'll never ask again, but please… I need to know… what Alex did." Her voice quivered slightly as she spoke the name that had seldom left her mind since the day Sherry had uttered it to her.

A horrified expression came over Wesker's face. "Where did you hear that name?" he demanded, his voice pinched thin with anger, maybe even a little fear. Claire shook her head at him. "Does it matter?" she asked evasively.

Wesker took a step towards her. "Don't play with me," he snarled, gripping her shoulders with iron fingers. Claire gasped and instinctively crossed her arms over her chest as Wesker roughly pulled her forward. "Where did you hear it? And don't lie to me!"

"From Sherry. She…" Claire hesitated, thinking about it. She didn't want to get Sherry in trouble, but something told her that lying to Wesker wasn't a good idea. "She saw you the morning after Arklay. You said something about how Alex had ruined S.T.A.R.S."

Wesker looked furious. His crushing grip was growing increasingly painful, but Claire forced herself to endure it. Gathering herself, she put both hands flat against his chest, wondering if she'd left her sanity in Paris, because it definitely wasn't with her right now. "What happened?" she repeated, pleading with him.

"I know what you're thinking," Wesker growled, "and it won't be the shining redemption you have in mind. There are things you don't want to know about me, Claire."

"I don't care," Claire plowed on, her face washed of all color save for the two feverish blotches on her cheeks like dabs of paint. The air around her was suddenly unbreathable. "All I want to know is what went on. I deserve at least that much… don't I? Please?"

For a terrible minute, Claire thought Wesker was going to tear her in half, but after a moment his grip slackened. The inferno behind his glasses dimmed to a smolder. "Yes, I suppose you do," he growled thickly. He pushed her out to arms length and turned away. Almost on the thought train of "ignore it and it might go away", Wesker paced the room with a fearsome frown, shuffling the papers on his desk even though Claire hadn't disturbed a single one, but she was used to his silent waiting game. She rubbed her sore shoulders and did just that. She waited.

At last, however, Wesker sat down on the edge of the bed, facing her with his hands between his knees. "I suppose none of this will make sense to you if I don't start at the beginning," he said bitterly. Claire nervously leaned back against the desk, one leg locked to support her weight. There was a heavy pause as Wesker collected his thoughts.

"I was raised by Umbrella," said Wesker quietly, starting with the obvious. "From the start, I was part of an undisclosed supersoldier program codenamed the Wesker Children. Alexander Ashford was the creator of the project, ensuring that his "participants" were taken from parents with exceptionally high IQs. There were thirteen of us in total. At varying stages of our lives, we were given injections of the Progenitor Virus. Some were incompatible, others assimilated the virus into their bodies, but the majority didn't last long. Over the years, most either went mad, committed suicide, or were terminated."

Claire swallowed and nodded, feeling chilled.

"At seventeen, I was unaware that I was part of _any_ project, let alone Spencer's conceited efforts to manufacture the stewards of his twisted utopia," Wesker sneered. "However, I grew suspicious of his motives, so I began to search for answers. I discovered that my so-called parents had not perished in a lab accident as I had been led to believe, but rather that I had been taken from them at a very young age."

Wesker shifted minutely. "I'm unsure why, even to this day, but I left immediately to seek them out," he said, reaching up to remove his glasses. He met Claire's gaze squarely, without the slightest trace of emotion. "They were on an outing that morning, so I stopped to observe them from the other side of the street. They had a young girl with them… my sister."

_Oh, dear God, no._ Realizing that her earlier suspicions about Wesker having a family were correct, Claire felt as though she'd been kicked in the gut. _Spencer did something to them, didn't he? Please don't tell me he held them over your head._

"My parents had obviously conceived another child after my disappearance," said Wesker, "and I found myself wondering what I should say to them, if anything at all. I never saw the van until it was too late. I watched the woman who'd given birth to me die on the sidewalk and she didn't even know me." Wesker swallowed visibly. "Neither my sister or my father survived long enough for medical aid to have even made a difference."

Hot, painful tears welled up in Claire's eyes. She tried to imagine a seventeen-year-old version of the man in front of her watch his mother die right in front of him, or cope with the image of his baby sister lying in a pool of blood. Problem was, she could see it quite vividly, hear the screams of the pedestrians, see the broken café tables and overturned cups of soda and ice cream, if it'd been a summer day.

"Wesker, I… I'm so, so sorry!" Claire whispered, her emotions threatening to choke her.

"Save it," said Wesker coldly. "I'm not telling you this in order to invoke your pity."

Claire swallowed the hard lump in her throat, stung by the cruelness of his words. And yet, some part of her realized that if Wesker did care about the incident, or had ever cared at all, smothering it beneath a layer of ice and riveted steel was his favorite defense against the trauma.

"In either case, and despite any personal doubts I might have had, I returned to Umbrella shortly afterwards. My ambitions there were too great to cast aside," Wesker continued in an unrelenting monotone. "However, something inside of me had changed. It was subtle at first, things like signing the wrong name on forms, but as the years passed it became more evident. There were incidents when I would loose hours of my life at a time, waking up in places with no memory to how I'd gotten there."

Claire had a sudden horrible, unimaginable notion as to where this was going.

"The symptoms reached their peak during the time Lisa Trevor spent at Arklay. Despite popular belief, I took no pleasure in watching the girl and her mother suffer," said Wesker bluntly. "At least, not when I was control. For three weeks, it was absolute hell. William eventually came to me with his concerns, and that was the first time I heard the name _Alex_. It was how I'd introduced myself to a visiting colleague."

_What? No. No, that can't be possible! It just can't be!_ Claire wanted to laugh. The thought that Alex was nothing more than a mental imbalance, a delusional second identity, was ludicrous! Surely Wesker, with all his intelligence and cunning, could have thought up a better excuse than this. Claire opened her mouth, but one look at the grim intensity in Wesker's eyes, and it was hard not to believe him. Nausea coiled through her stomach in an incapacitating wave.

"That… that's not possible," Claire managed, unable to stop the words from forming. "It… it's too…"

"Convenient?" asked Wesker dryly. "I assure you, it's been anything but. Between us, William and I managed to devise a solution. I began taking prescription antipsychotics and for over a decade I barely noticed any symptoms at all. Even when I left Umbrella for STARS, I was always in control. Always. Until today, dear heart, William's the only one who ever knew."

Claire gripped the edge of the desk, struggling to think. She dimly recalled Birkin telling her that nobody could change the tragedies of the past, that there were things about Wesker that she didn't know, and this was it, wasn't it? Claire licked her lips, fighting a mouth that had suddenly gone dry. "Go on," she whispered, terrified to realize that she needed to listen to the rest of the story.

"After the outbreak at Arklay, Spencer introduced me to the idea of using S.T.A.R.S. to collect combat data. I refused," said Wesker, choosing his words like surgical instruments. "I thought myself prepared to sacrifice them if the need arose, but I was wrong, so I convinced Spencer that the deaths of an entire paramilitary unit would be too difficult to cover up and that using our own mercenaries would be a wiser course of action. He agreed, and I should have known then that it was a mistake to believe him."

Wesker paused for a moment, turning the wallet over and over in his hands. "In the weeks that followed, I began laying the groundwork for my own plans. There was nothing noble about my intentions, I assure you, but I'd been planning to betray Umbrella for several months. I would go Arklay myself, retrieve the facility's research data, and disappear. I'd grown beyond needing Umbrella, and I refused to cater to an old man's senile fantasies. However…"

Wesker hesitated for a minute. The wallet in his hands began to spin faster. "However, I started to notice a change in myself," he said in a subdued voice. "I was growing distant and more violent as my… _condition_ began to manifest itself for the first time in years. I never missed a dosage, and at the end I even doubled it, but the drugs no longer seemed to work. There were times when I would suddenly find myself on the highway, with only scattered ideas of why I was out driving in the middle of the night. It was like… like watching myself through a window."

Claire wrapped her arms around her body. The sun had gone down and gloomy grey light was filtering in through the window, making the room seem cold and distant. "At last, I received Spencer's orders to carry out my original mission: lure S.T.A.R.S. into the Mansion, collect combat data, and destroy the facility. And finally I understood," said Wesker. "The part of me that called itself Alex – no doubt an unconscious homage to the creator of the Wesker Children – had assumed all of my worst traits, the part of me that reveled in Umbrella's corruption, the part of me that carried the indoctrination present in all the Wesker Children: follow Spencer without question."

"I didn't have much time, so I sabotaged Bravo Team's helicopter and sent them into the mountains, hoping that they would serve Spencer's purpose, but they were such weak, foolish idiots all this resulted in was more bloodshed, and no foreseeable gain." Wesker spat the words like acid, his anger and frustration plain. "Alpha Team was dispatched shortly afterwards, and there was nothing I could do about it."

Wesker's lip curled, revealing his teeth. He was gripping his wallet so hard, Claire was afraid for the badge inside it, half-expecting the flimsy metal to begin warping under the strain. It was obvious to her that Wesker was straying close to the boundaries of his normally excellent self-control.

"I don't remember much after that," he continued bitterly, his eyes blazing like miniature suns. "I came around two or three times during the night, long enough to realize what I was doing and I tried, I tried so hard to ensure that they had a fighting chance. They were idiots, but they were _my_ idiots! I was responsible for them and I failed!"

His words – so raw and angry, and full of the emotions he usually kept suppressed – resulted in a violent and profound flipping of Claire's stomach. Damn it. Damn it to _hell_. Wesker hated weakness, he hated not being in control, and most of all, he hated failure. Claire had hoped, but never in a thousand years had she really believed that Wesker had felt this way about Arklay. The realization felt like an abyss, a horrid, steadily widening gap that Claire could only stare at in dismay. All this time, how had Wesker managed to stand it?

"At last, Jill and your brother made it into the basement. I wasn't surprised. After all, they were my best men," Wesker growled. "It was like being trapped in my own head. It took every ounce of strength I had to assert myself on Alex, force his… my attention away from them. I knew the Tyrant would attack the first living thing it saw. It was what it had been bred to do. Death had become a welcome reprieve by then, and the only thing I felt was relief."

Wesker sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, forcibly composing himself. "I should have stayed dead, but the dormant virus in my body had other ideas," he gritted, fixing Claire in his fiery gaze. "I'm sure you can guess the rest of the story, dear heart, but let me make one thing very clear to you. _Alex_ is not some separate entity, a separate person who you can hold accountable. _I_ am to blame. I'm the one responsible for the destruction of S.T.A.R.S. _I am Alex_, do you understand? That personality is only an exacerbation of my… darker traits. When I was younger, I assassinated my former mentor and gloated above him while he died. I can assure you, Alex was not the one in control then."

Wesker's lips had a cruel twist to them. "How does that make you feel, dear heart?" he asked.

Claire wondered the very same thing. Despite what Wesker had said, she couldn't help the heavy, dismal feeling of pity swelling in her chest. She felt cold and sick and horrified all at once. Wesker had been right. She'd wanted to hear anything but this. Looking at the man, she tried to gauge how truthful he was being, since real cases of split personalities were rare and heavily debated. The idea seemed impossible and Claire desperately cast herself back in time, searching for some kind of clue, something she might have missed because she hadn't been looking.

She could picture Wesker spinning towards her, eyes burning, his expression twisted and malevolent. And suddenly Claire knew that for an instant, she'd met Alex face to face. _He was sick and run-down,_ she realized, shaking. _And he slipped. He lost control. _She could clearly remember how Wesker had frozen, the sudden look of horror on his face. _He couldn't get to those shots of his fast enough, _thought Claire, horrified to remember Sergei's snide remarks about the chairman's "medication"._ That's why he kicked me out of his room. He was afraid he'd loose control again. _

Claire recalled him telling her how he "couldn't guarantee her safety" anymore, and the evidence in his favor was suddenly damning. She hugged herself tight, almost as if she was trying to protect herself from the horror, the unexpected anguish, and forced her gaze back to Wesker. Normally the man's presence was overwhelming, wide shoulders thrown back, power radiating off of him in confident, masculine waves. Right now, however, his shoulders were slumped and while his gaze was hard and unwavering, fiery sparks of color in an otherwise blank face, his eyes were shiny with unshed moisture. Chris and Jill hadn't been the only ones who'd been hurt, and Wesker's pain came with the added burden of guilt, even if he gave very little indication of it.

And yet, Wesker wasn't just a killer. He was a murderer. He'd readily sacrificed Bravo unit in an attempt to save the people he decided should be the ones to live. It was a terrible decision to make, but Claire had a feeling that if she was faced with the same choice – her comrades and teammates versus a bunch of acquaintances – she knew that in the end, she would choose the people she cared about. It was cruel to think about Bravo team, about all the families who'd lost sons, husbands, or brothers, but the human heart was an inherently selfish thing. Wesker wasn't the hero of the story, but there was no way Claire could peg him as the villain.

In some ways, he was the cause of the tragedy, and in others he was just another victim of it. Despite what he'd told her, Claire just couldn't allow herself to continue believing that all the blame should be set squarely on his shoulders. She hadn't been there, but she believed Wesker when he said that he'd tried to help S.T.A.R.S. out of the Mansion. The thought made her entire body clench with sorrow and regret. As though a hand had reached inside her, she felt the last vestiges of mistrust she felt towards Wesker shift onto a new target. Once there, her anger flared up again, hotter and more acidic than ever before. If Spencer hadn't already been rotting in his grave, Claire would have left right now and twisted the old man's neck with her bare hands. _Because if it's anyone's fault, it's yours, you sick ugly bastard. _

Claire stood up, facing Wesker where he sat on the edge of the bed, and saw the invisible fulcrum on which she found herself balancing. Step backward into the familiar and all chances of going forward would never come again. Step forward into the unknown and there was no going back. She thought about her brother and what he would think. He would see it as a betrayal, but Claire knew in the deepest part of her soul that if she turned away now, the real sin would be turning her back on Wesker, on the truth. She'd be betraying her own heart. And right then and there, Claire made her choice. It wasn't the smartest decision in the world and it probably wasn't the safest either, but she knew that it was the _right_ one. And Chris be damned, but she was happy with it. Her brother would just have to understand.

Coming forward, Claire felt Wesker's eyes on her, neither pleading with nor refusing her, but simply waiting, issuing a silent challenge. Shakily, Claire knelt on the floor between Wesker's knees so they were roughly eye-level. The man stiffly tried to put his glasses back on, but Claire stopped him by curling her fingers around his wrist. He tilted his head at her. "I thought my eyes made you nervous, dear heart," he commented bluntly.

Claire met his gaze squarely. His eyes were actually several different colors, ranging from burning crimson to deep, liquid gold. Right now they were smoldering with red light. "Not anymore," she confessed. They faced each other for a minute, unsure what to say. Claire was the first to continue. "You know, I really couldn't decide what to get you for your birthday," she laughed. "A new tie really didn't seem like your style, but you know what? I think I finally figured out what your present is."

Shy and uncertain, Claire lifted her shaking hands to Wesker's face. There was a moment when she froze, the realization of what she planned to do crashing over her in an embarrassing wave, but she forced it back. She knew about his intentions and had refused him once. It was her job to make the advance this time, to prove she was serious. Taking a deep breath, Claire shut her eyes and leaned forward. The sensation of her lips meeting Wesker's was sudden and intense, like a blow deep in the center of her belly. She felt Wesker stiffen, inhaling sharply between his teeth. He reached up and grabbed her shoulders, forcing her back. Claire didn't know what to think. Had she done something wrong?

"Are you sure, dear heart?" Wesker asked, his voice strangely hoarse. "Are you very, very sure?"

Claire swallowed hard. "More sure than I've been in a long time. I…" she paused, overwhelmed. She'd faced hordes of infected, braved underground labs filled with Tyrants, and survived Raccoon City, but it took every ounce of courage Claire had just to utter three little words. "I love you… Albert."

For once in his life, Wesker was at a loss for words. Claire counted several heartbeats before he let go of her shoulders, taking her face in his hands instead. "I don't recall giving you permission to call me that," he murmured, the ghost of a smirk twisting his lips, "but I think I like it." He leaned forward to whisper in her ear, the rich timbre of his voice resonating through her body. "Say it again."

Flushing with embarrassment, Claire wanted to squirm, but for some reason it was a good feeling. "Wesker" could be applied to either Albert or Alex, but Albert was for one of them alone. She dimly recalled it meaning _noble_ or _illustrious_, and she wanted to make sure she was addressing right half of this man.

"I love you, Albert," she told him again, marveling at how much had changed between them. "Don't ask me to explain it, but I know what you want Umbrella to become and I know you care about me, so I've decided that's enough," she ended lamely, not knowing how else to put it into words.

Wesker chuckled, his breath caressing her flushed skin. "Don't flatter yourself by thinking you're the only one who's had doubts about the potential ramifications of our relationship, dear heart," he said. "If it means anything to you, however, your value to me has gone beyond simple caring."

Euphoria flooded Claire's system as Wesker forcibly tilted her head and pressed his mouth over hers, his body shaking with triumph and a sweltering feeling of relief. Unlike a moment ago, he took control of the kiss without hesitation and Claire was more than happy to let him. Wesker actually loved her! True, he hadn't said so in as many words, but she understood what he'd meant. Claire had always thought of love as involving roses and chocolates, and long walks in the park, with some handsome man asking for her hand in marriage on bended knee. This back-and-forth chess match she'd been playing with Wesker was a far cry from traditional courtship, but none of that mattered anymore.

Wesker's hands slid down her body, lifting her into him with phenomenal strength. The sheer power of his presence, the overwhelming heat of his body and the scent of his strong, spicy cologne, momentarily made her mind go blank and her temperature skyrocket. Yes, this was how it was meant to be. Claire leaned her weight into the source of that hard heat and tangible power, and _gave in_ to Wesker's dark, fierce embrace. She wrapped both arms around his neck and ran the fingers of one hand through his thick golden hair. Wesker growled in satisfaction as he pressed kiss after kiss on her pink lips, finally deepening the contact with the soft touch of his tongue. However, nothing was forced and Claire realized that this didn't just feel good. It felt _right_.

Surrender had never tasted so sweet.

After a long moment, Wesker pulled back and simply held her against his chest, both their pulses racing. His face had a radiant golden glow that Claire had never seen before, but it couldn't get rid of the dark circles under his eyes or the deep, careworn lines around his mouth. In a flash of understanding, Claire realized that his indomitable will was the only thing keeping him upright. He'd obviously been working ungodly hours trying to manage the corporation, worrying about Sergei and how much the Russian could destroy if he showed the T-Virus to the right people, and Claire realized she didn't want that to happen any more than he did. She wanted to protect Umbrella, too. She wanted to protect _Wesker_. And from here on in, she was determined to do just that.

"You need to get some sleep," she whispered, touching his face.

"Is that your professional diagnosis, Dr. Redfield?" Wesker mocked.

Claire leveled a glare at him. "Yeah, that's right," she said, drawing herself up. "You need lie down right now and take a nap before you fall over." She pressed herself to him, trying to make him understand how much she cared, even if she'd only barely begun to understand it herself. "Please?"

There was a moment when she was sure Wesker was going to refuse, but then he slowly began undoing his tie, working his way down to his belt and shoes. When all of the more clumsy articles of clothing were lying on the floor, Wesker moved back on the bed and lay down. Claire went to him without hesitation, kicking her shoes off as she went. Wesker instantly turned onto his side and gathered her against him, meshing his body with hers as though he were unwilling to allow even an inch of space between them. Neither said anything to each other, both feeling as though words would only cheapen the moment and turn it into something mundane.

Shifting, Wesker rested his face against the soft mass of Claire's hair, pulling it out of her ubiquitous ponytail so he could tangle it through his hand. He'd never been involved in a relationship; a woman would have been an unwanted burden, but things were different now. Something vital had been missing from his world and now it was in his grasp. It was more than he'd hoped for and better than he'd allowed himself to dream. Exhausted, he let his eyes travel over Claire's relaxed form, savoring her steadying breathing, until his gaze came to rest on the card that'd she'd carelessly dropped on the bed when she'd come to join him.

Moving slowly, Wesker picked it up and casually flipped it open above her head, perusing Claire's easygoing handwriting. The words contained within could only have belonged to a Redfield: straightforward and directly from the heart, and the tender space beneath his ribs convulsed with wonderful sharpness. Wesker leaned in to kiss Claire's forehead, unable to describe the savage feeling of pleasure coursing through his veins. He couldn't remember ever having felt like this in his life.

"Thank you, dear heart," Wesker sighed, so softly she almost didn't hear him, "for choosing to be mine."

Exhaustion made his voice thick, but Claire heard him anyway and nuzzled deeper into his warmth, leaning into him, _submitting_ to him, until it was impossible to tell where his body stopped and hers began. Wesker entwined himself around her, holding her against him, his strong legs twisting around hers, and Claire was lost in the sensation. Within a few moments both were asleep, and like a rare flower all the more precious and exotic because it had been unlooked for, they clung tightly to the love neither of them thought was possible.

**A/N: I've been waiting, itching, and most of all fearing to write this chapter for a long time. Those three weeks I was gone? I spent them all working on it, trying to make it as delicious as possible, and I truly hope you all enjoyed it. How's THAT for a major turning point? Muhahaha! And we're not done yet. The story isn't over. Not by a long shot. However, I need to resume my Finger Triangle of Evil Contemplation and spend some time plotting the next few chapters. That little blinking cursor mocks my writer's block.**

**After I finished this chapter - can you give me a hallelujah? LOL - I came down off a severe writer's high and have been really uninspired these past few days. You can blame Transformers: Prime (I've totally fallen in love with it!) and yes, I am a shameless bag of excuses, but I promise not to turn into one of those jackasses who fall off the face of planet and leave their stories unfinished. I WILL BE BACK! Chris and Jill will return to the story, Leon will make a special guest appearance, and there will be horror and survival situations, and more soap opera drama than you can shake a stick at. I love this story way too much to abandon it, so just keep your eyes peeled and don't forget about me. *pleading puppy eyes* ^_^**

**NOTE:**

**Alexander Ashford probably didn't really create the Wesker Children, but think about it: he discovered the gene that controls intelligence, and all of the Wesker Children were taken from parents with exceptionally high IQs. Also, we know the creator of the project is named "Alexander" or "Alex", and Mr. Ashford is known to have been in Umbrella's inner circle.**

**Oh, and before I go: **

**In the photo Claire discovered, Chris is holding a trophy. Can anybody tell me what it's for? ;)**


	21. Chapter 21: Virus of Love

The buttery amber sunshine of early morning filtered through the window and Claire awoke as the darkness behind her eyelids turned to dull red glow. Blinking, she stretched lazily. Outside the open window, the sun was a molten ball of gold, like something just pulled from a forge. The tiny slice of ocean visible from her position on the bed was dark and glittering, painted with a deep rosy glow where the sun set it on fire. Simple, childish joy filled Claire at the sight.

She felt Wesker shift slightly against her and she turned her gaze from the window, filled with a dreamy sense of awe as she studied the man facing her. Shifting her body slightly, she let the morning sunlight pour over him, careful to keep his eyes shaded, admiring the tiny sparks the light painted on his thick golden hair. Accustomed to either a smug smirk or a hard glare, she was struck by how relaxed Wesker looked.

_Ah, so even super-glue can't stand up to everything,_ she thought gleefully, noticing that his perfect hair was a little tousled. Seeing Wesker in this rare moment of vulnerability, Claire felt as though she'd been gifted with a singular honor. Her eyes explored the sharp lines of his nose and chin, the faint lines appearing on his forehead and on either side of his mouth, so far the only clues that he was approaching middle age. Claire blushed violently, thinking about the large age difference between them, but she surprised herself by how much she didn't care. A tiny movement drew her gaze to Wesker's arm, the one still draped around her body. Lean but muscular, belying the superhuman strength she knew the man possessed. Reaching out, Claire gently touched the side of his face, still unable to believe that this was actually happening. Now that she knew the truth about Umbrella… about Wesker… it changed _everything._

Claire started a little as Wesker's hand moved, closing around her inquisitive fingers. He inhaled deeply, stretching like a lazy cat. Fiery eyes blinked at her, pupils even more than narrow than usual in reaction to the light.

"Good morning," Claire said shyly, embarrassed to have been caught in her moment of curiosity, but Wesker didn't let her pull her hand back. He held on, running his thumb over the back of her knuckles. The arm around her body tightened a little, hand in the small of her back, drawing her a fraction of an inch closer. There was a generous, lazy smirk on his face. Usually it made him look arrogant and smug, but today his smile was laced with genuine warmth. "Beautiful," he agreed, deep voice almost a purr. If only by the smolder in his eyes, he wasn't talking about the sunrise.

Claire flushed straight down to her bare toes as Wesker brought her hand back to his face. "Please, continue," he urged,

Claire's burning cheeks went from pink to crimson, but she accepted the game and ran her fingers along his jaw, slowly moving to ruffle the hair at the back of his neck. Wesker closed his eyes, savoring the feeling of Claire's touch as she worked his shoulder in a shy one-handed massage, working out the tendons he'd unconsciously tightened upon waking. Unless he was the one to initiate it, Wesker disliked physical contact, but this was different. He'd never been touched like this before. Pleasantly. _Lovingly_.

"You weren't thinking about getting up at the crack of dawn, are you?" Claire asked, afraid of him leaving.

Wesker smiled. "I thought of it, but I think this is a much better use of my time."

Claire's heart quickened as his powerful arms suddenly went around her waist, pulling her close. She wasn't entirely sure how long they stayed that way, but the next thing she knew, water was running in the bathroom sink. Stretching luxuriously, Claire rolled into the soft depression Wesker had left in the mattress, savoring the above-average heat that seemed to cling to the sheets. _Chris is going to kill me._

It was a sobering thought. Pulling herself up with a sigh, Claire went into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. She felt different somehow, as though something had changed deep inside her. It was a weird feeling, and she couldn't really put a finger on it to explain it. Opening the fridge to look for the creamer – because she most certainly did not drink her coffee black, thanks very much – Claire almost had a panic attack before finding it behind the eggs. There was a moment when the entire universe seemed to wobble, and then she scrambling some eggs and flipping them into a skillet. While they cooked, Claire took a wicked-looking sushi knife out of the drawer and began to chop peppers, because for some reason for other, Wesker always had a stash of them around.

_Loves peppers, hates olives, and drinks his coffee black. Oh, and he hides licorice in his desk._ Claire paused in mid-chop. These were things you knew about friends and family. That strange feeling swept over her again, bringing with it the realization that she was standing barefoot in the kitchen making breakfast for a man who wasn't her brother. Her stomach tightened. She felt weird. Not sick, but weird. And very, very warm.

"Well, something certainly smells appetizing." Claire heard Wesker's boot scuff on the floor behind her and she straightened, feeling him looming over her. The powerful scent of soap and spices clouded her mind, blotting out the eggs cooking on the stove, as Wesker's hand settled above her hip, holding the curve of her waist. _It's like it was made to fit. Oh, God, stop it. Get a grip! _

Picking up the cutting board, Claire dumped the peppers over the eggs. She rocked back slightly – she couldn't help it – and leaned into Wesker's granite shoulder. His gloved hand rose, fingers curling through the end of her ponytail and tugging her head back so he could look her in the eyes.

"Yes?" Claire inquired mockingly.

Wesker smirked. "I'm a scientist first and foremost, dear heart. I like to experiment," he said.

"Naw. Really? What's on your color-coded little clipboard today?"

Something beeped softly over the sizzle of cooking eggs. Eyes smoldering with extreme annoyance, Wesker reached into his pocket and pulled out his PDA. Accessing something from a recently downloaded email, his expression immediately went from irritated to smug. Claire turned the scrambled eggs with a fork. "Good news?" she asked dryly, a little disappointed she wasn't going to figure out what Wesker's "experiment" was.

"Indeed. I've just received word that the first phase of T-Nightwish studies have been completed."

Claire was silent for a moment. "I, uh… I know you told Ada to show me that hospital in France. And I want you to know that I am grateful for it," she whispered, not meeting his gaze. "Really, I am. What you did for Beth…"

"What _we_ did for her, dear heart," Wesker corrected, genuine praise giving way to a buttery smirk. "In fact, I'm expected to attend a conference with the project leaders tomorrow. Would you like to accompany me? The accomplishment half yours, after all."

Surprised, Claire turned around to stare. "Me? But I… I don't…" She thought about the last corporate function she'd attended on _behalf_ of Umbrella. The mere thought of the accompanying politics and subtext made her guts squirm with horror. "Look, maybe you were too busy working the crowd to notice last time, but I don't have a clue about politics, or how to—"

Wesker chuckled, smoothly cutting her off. "Don't sell yourself short," he said. "Am I fully aware of what I subjected you to that night and you rose to the challenge admirably. When it comes to people I'm responsible for, I neither exaggerate nor underestimate their abilities. If I didn't think you could handle it, I wouldn't have offered it to you."

_When it comes to people I'm responsible for…?_ For a minute, Claire's overactive imagination was only too happy to provide her with an image of Wesker dressed in a Kevlar vest and combat boots, a two-way police radio clipped to one shoulder. She didn't know if his choice of words was deliberate or not, but at this point she decided it didn't matter. Their implied meaning was the same.

"…Do I have to wear another fancy dress?" Claire asked suspiciously.

Wesker chuckled. "The conference will be over lunch, dear heart. You may wear whatever is comfortable."

An eager spark kindled in Claire's belly, but instead of trying to snuff it out, she timidly stoked the fire. A lunch conference! A lunch conference with Wesker, one of the most powerful men in the world. A buzzing filled Claire, as well as understanding. The idea actually excited her. And as she and Wesker ate their omelet over hot coffee and toast, Claire knew for certain that things would never be the same again. It frightened and intrigued her at the same time. It was like taking her motorcycle out for a drive and discovering a new road, a little-used, forgotten path leading deep into unfamiliar territory. One look and Claire knew the path would be rocky, laced with potholes and fallen branches waiting to get caught under her tires, but she settled in tight, gripped the accelerator, and gunned forward without looking back.

* * *

><p>A notorious workaholic – especially of late – Wesker was typically one of the first people to enter the labs in the morning and one of the last to leave. Birkin had expected the man to be in ahead of him at five or six o'clock, so when ten o'clock finally rolled around and the man had yet to make his appearance, the geneticist was starting to get a little worried. By no means blind to the obvious psychical signs, he'd tried on numerous occasions to convince Wesker he needed to get some sleep, but the man had obstinately refused the advice. Birkin was afraid he'd finally crashed, or become ill with exhaustion. He was getting ready to go to Wesker's room and check up on him when the door opened with a bright chime and a rush of displaced air.<p>

Right then, Birkin knew something was up.

Wesker didn't just look well rested. He was positively _glowing_. Eying his colleague, Birkin tried to remember the last time he'd seen that kind of spring in the man's step. The breakthrough with the Nightwish rose had come close, but this was different in a way he couldn't quite put his finger on. Picking up a clipboard with the day's readouts on it, Wesker perused the entries. "Morning, Will," he acknowledged without looking up.

Birkin did a double take._ Morning, Will?_ Yeah. Something was definitely up.

"I trust you've got the data I asked for?" Wesker asked, coming over to stand by him.

"What? Oh, yeah. Sure," Birkin handed him a folder. Within a few moments they were lost in their work, donning protective gloves and checking microscopes. Throughout the day, Wesker proceeded to terrorize interns like he usually did, but with a subtle, almost manic glee added on top of it. The man was enjoying himself, no doubt about that. When they broke for lunch, Birkin was giving his colleague a run-down on the finer data points streaming in from their Nightwish studies in France when he heard a startled oath, followed closely by a loud, dismaying splash. Birkin looked up from where he'd trying to open a bag of chips.

Wesker had gone out the door just as somebody had tried to hurry in. Birkin glanced at the crumpled Styrofoam cup in the man's hand and wondered where all the coffee had gone. One second later, he realized that a more fitting question would have been, where it_ wasn't. _A large, vaguely Russia-shaped patch of coffee stained the front of Wesker's lab coat, turning it the color of fresh mud. It was also on the floor, and on the shirt of the man who'd plowed into him. There were even a few drops on the door, Birkin noted absently.

"Sir!" the man squawked, freezing up like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. He cast a dismayed glance at Wesker's front, then down to the floor where his newspaper was soaking up whatever amount of coffee that had failed to make it onto the chairman's expensive shoes. Blanching white, he grabbed a handful of napkins from a nearby kiosk and tried to scrub the coffee from Wesker's coat. "Chairman Wesker, I'm so, so sorry!"

Wesker's hand snaked out and caught the other man's wrist, who froze with an abject look of horror on his face. Birkin grimaced. He could almost hear the band tuning their instruments for a funeral dirge. "Enough," said Wesker, his voice clipped. "I'll take care of this. Watch where you're going next time."

The man's eyes bulged behind his coffee-splattered glasses. "Y… yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

"Good. Now if you would…?" Wesker gestured at the door the other man was currently blocking. To his credit, the young scientist got the message. He hastily moved past Wesker into the cafeteria, shooting nervous glancing over his shoulder as though he half-expected to be chased down and eviscerated. Birkin rounded on Wesker. The man's expression was a trifle sour as tossed his now-ruined coffee cup into the garbage, but there was no telltale glow behind his glasses to signify a potential nuclear meltdown. It was unprecedented. In Birkin's experience, Wesker typically would have throttled and then promptly demoted the skinny coffee-man for his error.

"Alright," Birkin exclaimed, as Wesker took off his lab coat. "Who the hell are you and what have you done with Albert?"

Wesker folded the coat over one arm, brushing at his shirt. It was only slightly damp. His coat had absorbed most of the beverage. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Will," he grumbled. "If you're going ask me something, then at least dignify it by making sense."

Birkin curbed the urge to pinch himself. "Okay, let me rephrase that: is there a third personality you haven't introduced me to yet? Am I talking to Alphonse now, the cheery, easygoing part of your little triad?"

Wesker favored him with a glare that could have curdled milk. "Is that supposed to be funny?" he demanded.

"No," said Birkin seriously. "I mean it, Al. What's gotten into you today?"

Wesker snorted and looked across the cafeteria, either searching for the errant coffee-man – maybe he'd decided to make an example of him after all – or wondering if another cup of coffee was worth the extra effort. "Nothing's "gotten into me". I'm simply in a rather good mood and since the event is rare enough in itself, I'm refusing to let mindless idiots spoil it for me," he said crisply.

"A good mood? You're practically skipping down the hall!" Birkin exclaimed, deciding to refill Wesker's coffee for him. Yes, he was being a little melodramatic, and no, it was _not_ uncalled for. Wesker took the Styrofoam cup when it was offered to him, swirling the little plastic stick. "I take it WilPharma's still deciding on our latest offer?" he asked.

"Nice try, Al," said Birkin, easily picking up on Wesker's attempt to change the subject. Before he could press the matter, however, laughter filtered through the cafeteria, momentarily distracting him. He looked towards the buffet and saw his daughter doubled over against the counter, her face pink over some joke Claire had just told her. For some reason, the redhead seemed even more bubbly and animated than usual, at least since the incident down in the labs. Birkin smiled fondly. Due to her parent's demanding, cloistered lifestyle, Sherry had never really made friends, and it always made Birkin feel little guilty. He was glad that things were working out between the girls.

Out of the corner of his eye, Birkin noticed Wesker peering over his coffee. There was a smolder behind his glasses, a flare that was more gold than red, and Birkin had long since come to associate it with satisfaction or amusement, rather than anger. His eyes darted to Claire, then back to Wesker. Sure enough, the chairman was gazing in that direction and all the pieces suddenly fell into place. An unholy expression of glee spread across Birkin's face.

"Sooooo," he began conversationally, drawing the syllables out, "you've finally figured out you've got a beautiful women in your room, haven't you? Congrats, Al. You're a human male after all."

Wesker gaze knifed back to him so fast it was almost comical. "Come again?" he growled, his voice dangerously soft.

"Oh, come on. Give me a little credit. I've known you for over half my life!"

"Unfortunately," Wesker sniped.

Birkin chuckled manically. This was beyond priceless. Behold Wesker, Evil Overlord of Umbrella. See how frightening his mien, how murderous his gaze while he's admiring at the first woman Birkin had ever seen him take an interest in. _Ever_. Claire was obviously something very special indeed. As Wesker moved away, Birkin dogged his elbow, hounding him with risqué questions like the college boy he'd never really gotten to be. He realized the danger of stretching Wesker's patience, but he was having too good a time to give it up.

"Will, I'm going to say this only once," Wesker hissed, glowering at him. "Back off, or I swear I will drown you in the nearest percolator."

Birkin crowed with laughter. Evil Overlord, indeed.

Across the cafeteria, Claire looked up, searching the crowd. She'd thought for sure she'd heard Birkin laughing, but since she didn't see him, she had to assume she'd imagined it. She was still full from breakfast, but for the excuse of having something to do while Sherry ate, she got a yogurt and some juice. Sherry eagerly led her over to a table by the window so they could look out over the island. The day was cold, but there wasn't a cloud in the sky and the sunlight felt warm against the glass. Peering around a fake begonia, Claire drank in the sight as if seeing it for the first time. Mont St. Michel was the seat of Umbrella's power, and she was one of the privileged few to be granted access to it.

_It's beautiful,_ she thought simply, warmed by the thought.

Flopping into her seat, Sherry cracked the tab on a can of soda. "So, Claire, what do you want to do today? I've got a couple of movies for us to watch, or we can go swimming before they shut the pool down for the year," she said.

"Actually, I was thinking we could do some school," said Claire, turning her attention from the window.

"_School?_" Sherry echoed the word with the kind of dismay only students are capable of appreciating.

_Yeah, school,_ thought Claire, smiling to herself. This morning, she'd made herself a promise. She wouldn't don a lab coat ever again until she'd earned the right to wear it. _Magna cum laude_. "Don't look so freaked out," she told Sherry, opening a straw. "It'll be fun. You're the Ivy League girl, remember? All you have to do is show me how to get signed up for classes. I want to learn how to belong around here like Wesker and your dad."

Sherry's eyes widened. "Wow, you… you really mean that? I thought you didn't approve."

"I changed my mind," said Claire, and she'd never been happier for it.

Sherry looked as though she couldn't have been happier if Claire had bestowed an entire fortune of gold and jewels on her. She practically bounced in her seat. "That's great, Claire! I'll be happy you help you get signed up! We can take the same classes and study together and… aren't you coming?"

Halfway across the cafeteria, Sherry realized that Claire hadn't moved to follow her. Claire stifled a laugh. "Geez, Sherry, I didn't mean right now! Chill out and eat," she jabbed at Sherry's tray with her fork. "Your pizza's getting cold."

Flushing a little, the younger girl slunk back to her seat. "Besides, you're going to have to tell me what kinds of jobs don't involve picking things apart with a scalpel," said Claire, grimacing a little. "And viruses… viruses are okay I guess, but I'm not majoring in them, that's for sure."

"Well, there's biochemistry, bioengineering, biogenetics…" Sherry listed a long catalog of possible career opportunities and Claire listened carefully to every one. Aside from a few specializations, skills were shared between jobs, so if you could do one, you could pretty much do them all. Claire thought about Wesker – and the lunch conference planned for tomorrow – and shivered with anticipation. Never one to do things half-assed, Claire decided that if she was going to dance with the Devil, then she was going to _tango_.

After lunch, Sherry propelled Claire out of the cafeteria so fast she left skid marks. Sitting at the younger girl's computer, they brought up the school's website and eagerly got to work. Claire couldn't quite tell who was more excited about this, her or Sherry. She shook her head and pulled up a chair, trying to remember her social security number. After everything was done, it was still too early for the spring semester and too late for the fall, so Claire resigned herself to wait. Already in the mood for this sort of thing, however, they spent the rest of the day hitting the books, quizzing each other on the chapter reviews. Thumbing through Sherry's heavy textbooks, Claire was afraid that this spur-of-the-moment enthusiasm had literally put her head in the guillotine, but the lessons – while undeniably difficult – remained inside the realm of what she could handle with a little hard work. Back home in Utah, she'd kept going to college because Chris had insisted upon it, but after Raccoon City her heart wasn't really into it. Today, however… today was different.

The fervor was hot and eager, hungry for knowledge and spoiling for a challenge. Claire suddenly had an inkling of how Wesker must feel all the time and she understood his dedication to Umbrella just a little bit more. Was she ready to commit her life to the same cause, the same all-consuming drive? Claire couldn't be sure of that yet, but she was more than ready to take the theory for a test drive. Umbrella wasn't just a company. It was a creed. Three years ago, Claire would have vomited at the very thought of joining the corporate empire, but things had changed. Under Spencer's direction, Umbrella was everything she hated and feared, the worst kind of ambition possible. It corrupted ideals and brought out the worst in men, but under Wesker, things were different. While he shared many of Spencer's goals, his motives were very different. At the end of the day, he still aspired to a kind of dark, fierce nobility: _the benefit of all humanity. _Claire was willing to see the difference and accept the similarities.

"Okay, Claire. What to you call either of the two main chambers in the human heart?" Sherry asked, peering over the book.

Blinking a little, Claire shook herself. "Ventricle," she replied without hesitation.

The day passed, slipping quickly into the next. Claire couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this jittery, like getting ready to walk the victory march at her high school graduation. Around noon, she showered and went to dig through her meager wardrobe. She picked a black pair of jeans with a red sequined butterfly on one hip and a deep, ruby-red satin blouse. She'd never worn it before now – it'd seemed too fancy, too sensual – but in her current mindset, it seemed appropriate. She dressed quickly and sprayed some perfume on her neck and wrists. After a long mental debate, she pulled out the high-heels she'd worn to Wesker's party and put those on, too.

Claire walked a couple laps around the room, trying to convince herself that she felt comfortable enough to go out into public without snapping an ankle. _What am I doing? Seriously, this is crazy. I am really going to start introducing myself as Dr. Redfield to these people?_

There was a knock at the door. As expected, Wesker was waiting for her on the other side, looking unspeakably fashionable and twice as smug in his black suit and navy-blue dress shirt. Claire fought hard to squash the sudden feeling of picked up for a date. _He looks good in blue,_ she thought, ignoring the heat threatening to creep up her face. Wesker smirked at her, his gaze moving over her face, her throat, her breasts. Claire's flush deepened. The blouse (having been picked out by Ada, that sneaky bitch) didn't button all the way up and was only just high enough to remain professional.

"Shall we, dear heart?" Wesker asked, placing his hand in the small of her back.

Claire nodded and allowed herself to be steered her down the hall, blinking when Wesker handed her a grey manila folder marked with the Umbrella logo. "All of the data concerning the T-Nightwish serum is in there," he explained, guiding her up the stairs to the helipad. The sky was overcast and cold, the asphalt wet from a partial snowfall. "You may wish to have a look."

"What?" Claire inquired dryly. "No surprises? No last-minute unveilings?"

"You've stated your desire to go with me," said Wesker simply. "It would be irresponsible of me to keep you ignorant of the situation."

Everything felt like a strange reply of history as they climbed into the warm helicopter. Now that she wasn't sick with nerves like the last time, Claire took an opportunity to get a good look around. The helicopter looked vaguely military in design – maybe a converted Black Hawk, or a Chinook – its hard plastic benches and overhead racks replaced with deep, upholstered seats. A lot of it was trimmed in varnished wood. The pilot, a stern-faced man in his late forties, was probably ex-military as well. The protection Wesker afforded himself was subtle, but not altogether hidden.

Claire shook the thought away and made herself comfortable, opening the folder on her lap. The rotors picked up speed, going from a lazy throb to a deep, powerful whine. Claire didn't bother to watch the take-off out the window. She figured she had about ten minutes until they reached the mainland and she wanted as much time as possible to study the portfolio Wesker had given her. Flipping through the papers, she was engrossed by the sheer potential they claimed was possible. Beth had only been the beginning. There was talk of combining T-Nightwish essence with stem cells to make every dose tailor-made to the patient receiving it.

Claire asked Wesker a few questions and was surprised when he answered them in detail, obviously pleased she was taking an interest. By the time they reached Wesker's private hanger at Le Bourget Airfield, Claire felt (mostly) confident to hold her own in the upcoming meeting, so long as she wasn't pressed for too many details. She felt pretty sure that Wesker would steer most of the questions away from her, anyway. They disembarked from the helicopter as the valet brought Wesker's car around. The black Lamborghini _Reventon_ was sleek, powerful, and put Ada's humble red Jaguar to shame. Claire stared open-mouthed at it for a minute or two, trying to comprehend the kind of money it took to own something like that.

"Not one for subtlety, are you?" she remarked when she found her voice (and whatever stupid remark presented itself first).

"Only when it suits me, dear heart," said Wesker, sliding into the driver's seat. Filled with a mixture of excitement and the nervous edge of being in way over her head, Claire got in beside him, breathing the scent of the car's interior. Shifting into reverse, Wesker executed a perfect three-point turn and departed the airfield, heading south for Paris. Along the side of the road and in the deep folds of the surrounding hills, there was snow. It was only a few inches, but it was enough to remind Claire that winter was definitely on its way. She'd been on Mont St. Michel for over three months. A queasy feeling arose in her stomach, but she pushed it back, unwilling to face the implications right now. After a while, she switched from watching the scenery to watching Wesker's hands on the steering wheel, both in perfect driving position. At a moment's notice, they could go from breaking bones to a seductive caress. Claire shivered lightly, trying not to think about how arousing it was to watch him drive.

_I've lost my mind, haven't I?_ She glanced back at Wesker, remembered where they were going and why. _Yeah. I have._

Some time later, they pulled into the parking lot of a luxury restaurant. Cutting the engine, Wesker pocketed his keys and came around to open Claire's door, much to her everlasting surprise. And embarrassment. Heat rose in her cheeks as she put her hand in Wesker's, allowing him to help her out of the car. Going inside the establishment, Claire looked around with undisguised interest as Wesker confirmed their reservation. The restaurant was decidedly Greek or Roman in design, with fluted Ionic columns, statues of beautiful bare-breasted women, and false ivy growing up the walls. Fire was burning in decorative terracotta basins scattered artfully around the room, casting wavering orange light over the dark brown carpet and pale, marble-topped tables. One whole wall was devoted to a grand fish tank. Myriads of colorful saltwater fish flickered in and out of a massive sunken city, conjuring visions of Atlantis. Bubbles streamed up from hidden vents, sticking to the plants like silver beads.

Claire was utterly delighted when they were seated right next to the aquarium. A tall woman was already seated there, waiting for them. She was lean and angular, almost stiff in bearing, but with a subtle elegance. Her hair was ash-blond, cropped fashionably short with bangs that swept across her forehead. Her eyes were bright green flecked with blue. Smiling, she stood up to shake Wesker's hand. "Chairman Wesker. It's always a pleasure," she said.

They exchanged pleasantries. The woman introduced herself to Claire as Dr. Fayth Beckett and the two women shook hands, smiling in that open, yet nervous manner of two people who don't know each other, but are willing to make the effort. As they sat down, Claire got the sudden, alarming flash that as much as this woman intimidated her, Fayth was probably feeling the exact same way about her. Feeling duplicitous, Claire shifted and nervously focused her attention on the aquarium, resolving to put her discomfort aside. After all, she wasn't entirely blind to how happy Wesker was now that she'd finally decided to join him in his empire building.

"Are you pleased with how things are going, Dr. Redfield?" Fayth asked, undisguised interest in her voice.

"…What? Oh, yes. Yes, I am. I can't tell you how amazed I am," said Claire, grimacing inwardly. This was going to take a lot of practice. She sat up straighter, ever fiber of her being trained on the conversation. The waiter dropped by with their menus and took their order for drinks. They were just perusing the first page of the menu when another man showed up at their table. He was short and well padded, with richly tanned skin and hair so dark the highlights almost looked blue. Wesker stood up to shake his hand.

"I am honored, Chairman Wesker," he said, his voice lilting with a recognizable Hindi accent. "I heard what happened in the labs and I was afraid that you'd be too busy to make it. "

"So was I," Wesker acknowledged, with the subtle tone of a man speaking with a co-conspirator. "Dr. Chandra, may I introduce Claire Redfield?" he added, sweeping his hand towards her.

Dr. Chandra shook her hand with a smile. "_The_ Dr. Redfield." He whistled softly. "I've heard a lot about you."

Claire laughed nervously. "Well, don't believe everything you hear," she said.

Nobody seemed to notice how anxious she was and her poor stab at a joke was actually well received. Laughing, Dr. Chandra seated himself just as the waiter returned with their drinks. After the mandatory "How are you?" niceties were observed, the conversation swiftly turned to business. As Claire had suspected, she often wasn't directly included in the conversation and that was fine by her. Other people – like the well-respected doctor she was supposed to be – would have probably taken this as a snub, but Claire couldn't care less. Staying concealed in Wesker's shadow gave her more time to listen and observe, sensing the hidden meanings behind what was discussed out in the open.

"I'm amazed by Subject 19's recovery," said Dr. Beckett. "We've propelled ahead by leaps and bounds just from what we've learned from her and she was only our first clinical trial." She turned her attention to Claire. "She spoke very highly of your visit, Dr. Redfield," she told her.

Claire smiled, already having deduced who Dr. Beckett was referring to. They talked about Beth for a little while, with Claire mentally filing everything away for future use. By the time their lunch arrived, however, the conversation had slipped back into the more technical aspects of the T-Nightwish strain, giving Claire some time to enjoy her pasta. She took careful note of what Wesker ordered, finding it deeply ironic that she was more interested in what the man liked to eat as opposed to the discussion taking place around her. However, her ears perked up immediately when Dr. Chandra mentioned an alleged outbreak in Spain.

"I'm sure you've heard already, but there's reports," he paused, then lowered his voice slightly. "There are reports of an outbreak in the more rural areas. It resembles T-Virus infection: itching, fever, rotting sores, all of it culminating in violent behavior – that's what got my attention in the first place – but beyond that, I'm afraid it doesn't fit the pattern."

Explain," said Wesker, lowering his drink.

"The infected… well, they only attack outsiders. Knives, shovels, anything they can lay hands to. At least that's the rumor, anyway. It's hard to get a good picture of what's really going on. The villages are very remote and someone's actively working to cover up what does manage to leak, plus the local castellan is basically threatening to hang anybody caught trespassing on his land. I _do_ know the villages burned down shortly afterwards, though."

Dr. Chandra eyed Wesker nervously. "Forgive me, but have you…?"

"No," Wesker growled, startling them with the ironclad vehemence in his tone. "If there are viruses changing hands on the black market, then they were purchased during Spencer's time, or else recovered from the destruction of Raccoon City. I have nothing, and will have nothing to do with it."

Dr. Chandra swallowed visibly. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't… I didn't mean to imply…"

"I know you didn't, doctor," Wesker replied, the warning in his voice poorly disguised. "But you needn't worry," he added. "I have someone working to uncover more information, I assure you."

"So you did hear," said Dr. Chandra, looking slightly put out.

"You'll find that very little escapes my attention," said Wesker placidly, returning to his steak. Releasing the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, Claire picked up a glass of merlot and took her first sip of the evening. The conversation awkwardly crawled back more pertinent matters, with Dr. Chandra only too eager to change the subject.

"I was wondering, were you planning to breed large groups of Nightwish?" asked Dr. Beckett.

"Actually, Dr. Redfield and I would prefer their numbers be kept small and under specialized care at the island," said Wesker. Claire glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, noticing the faint smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. _Of course. He doesn't want the secret about my blood getting out, _Claire thought, realizing that while Wesker had answered everyone the table, the subtext was meant for her alone. It suddenly made her feel important, it made her feel trusted – like Wesker sincerely wanted her riding shotgun – and she smiled faintly, letting him know she'd gotten the message. She took another sip of wine, finally relaxing into her own skin.

"I heard you were working on combining the serum with stem cells, Dr. Beckett," she said politely. "Can you tell me anything about it?"

Beside her, Wesker's smile reached an entirely new level of smug.

The afternoon wore on and it was past dark by the time the meeting was called to an end. The parking lot was cold and nearly empty, suffused with light pouring out of the nearby restaurant. Fountains on either side of the entrance were now edged with bright orange flames, throbbing and crackling in the wind. Dozens of coins glittered at the bottom of the basin. Pulling her coat more tightly around her body, Claire took a minute to gaze out over the city and its multitude of bright lights. Across the street, a woman was trying to herd her young son out of a store, shouting in the nameless tongue of mothers.

"Chris! Christopher James Dominique! Get in the car right now!"

Claire stomach panged sharply. She tried again to brush it back, but this time the feeling wouldn't go.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" Wesker asked, coming up behind her.

She smiled wanly at him. "It was wonderful. Thank you." She hesitated a minute, than added, "So, how'd I do?"

"Better than you realize," he said, observing her carefully. There was a grim, calculating look in his eyes that Claire was certain she didn't like. "You know, dear heart…" he began quietly, as if he was reluctant to bring up whatever had suddenly come to mind. Behind his glasses, his gaze flicked to the mother and her son, now driving away in their warm car.

"You haven't spoken with your brother in quite some time," Wesker said, and it wasn't a question. It was a statement.

Claire swallowed hard. If nothing else, Wesker was an eerily perceptive bastard. She shifted her footing, the cold wind breezing across the exposed skin of her ankles. Damn skimpy high-heels. She hated feeling as though she'd abandoned Chris, because she hadn't. With everything that had been happening with Wesker, with all the truth she'd uncovered, her brother had just been… less important at the time. But she hadn't forgotten. Not entirely. She looked at Wesker, opened her mouth to speak, and realized that no words would come. The wind picked up in intensity, rustling the nearby trees.

"Would you like to go back?" Wesker asked bluntly. "I believe your condition has stabilized enough for that to be possible."

Claire instinctively froze. Was Wesker trying to get rid of her? No, that wasn't it. He was giving her a choice. She might have been a prisoner in the beginning, but those days were long gone. And while it was possible that Wesker had deliberately kept her from speaking with her brother, Claire suspected that he, too, had just pushed Chris aside as a secondary concern. That's just the ways things had happened and in retrospect Claire couldn't really say that she was surprised, or even angry. She swallowed a hard lump in her throat, struggling to find the right words. Chris was her family. Her only family. And he was probably so worried. The thought of going back made her sick for a dozen different reasons. But she couldn't imagine staying away, either.

"… I would," Claire whispered. "Like to go back, I mean."

A hard shadow fell across Wesker's face. "Of course," he said. "I'll have the necessary preparations made."

His tone was suddenly cold and unfeeling, but Claire knew better than to feel hurt. She'd seen the defense mechanism before, after all. Wesker's heart was bitter and carefully guarded. Any threat, any attempt to see past the armor he'd erected between himself at the rest of the world, and that cold demeanor would slide into place like a mask, guarding his true emotions. Wesker had used the tactic before, when he'd tossed her out of his room those many months ago. Better to pretend that you didn't care rather than admit that you were afraid. Claire stepped forward and caught Wesker's hand as he took out his keys.

"You didn't let me finish," she breathed, her breath fogging in the cold air. "Chris is my brother and I love him, but I love you, too. In a month or so, after Chris and I have squared things up, I want to come back to the island. I want to be a part of Umbrella."

Wesker could have been a statue for all he moved, his car keys dangling forgotten. Claire tensed as his other hand suddenly gripped her chin, making her jaw throb every time her heart pumped blood. She couldn't have turned away even if she'd wanted to. "No lies, Claire," Wesker growled. "Look me in the eyes right now and convince me that this is truly the way you want it."

Claire took a deep breath, her heart pumping a jittery cocktail of anxiety through her veins. "No lies," she admitted weakly. "I had Sherry sign me up for med-school and everything. I don't want to pretend to be Dr. Redfield. I want to do it for real, because I really think it's something worthwhile."

The pause that followed was heavier than Claire had ever experienced before. Suddenly, Wesker's lips were crushed against hers, hard and possessive, bruising her mouth with his sudden passion. Claire gasped, more out of surprise than pain, and forced her body to soften, one hand gripping the lapel of Wesker's heavy leather coat. Wesker pulled her forward, his impenetrable chest tight with manic fervor, so rare and so very dangerous, and somehow his leg found its way between hers. When Claire discovered that she was literally riding Wesker's thigh, she had a feeling that this kind of public display invited the attention of voyeurs, but she didn't care. It felt so good, so utterly _right, _and she opened her mouth willingly when Wesker demanded the intimacy.

The sweet sensation stole the cartilage out of her knees, forcing her to let her weight out on Wesker's shoulders, realizing he wanted this bond – and the trust it implied – as much as she did herself. He might be a powerful tyrant now, but Wesker was still a man, a man with feelings, emotions, and desires. Claire put one hand behind his neck, her mind wiped of all rational thought as Wesker tasted her bottom lip, inviting her to do the same. Snow was beginning to fall softly, gathering on Wesker's shoulders.

"Look," Wesker growled, his voice close and deep in her ear.

"Huh? At what?"

Wesker led her gaze to the window of his Lamborghini. The glass was dark, beaded with water, and Claire took a moment to study their reflection, marveling at how she seemed to fit so perfectly against Wesker's chest, her toes barely touching the ground as he supported most of her weight on his thigh. Behind his glasses, Wesker's eyes flared. "This is how it's meant to be, dear heart," he rumbled, gesturing to their combined reflection. "Together, we can write the history for this world."

Claire's heart jumped. Suddenly, she could see the ragged gap in Wesker's very soul and while she wasn't stupid or arrogant enough to believe that she could fix him, she resolved to at least soothe some of the pain. And Claire realized that there was a mirroring – if not so very terrible – hole in her own heart. Things hadn't been the same since Raccoon City. But now, some of that weight was beginning to lift and Claire knew why. For the first time since then, she really had hope. Hope for a better tomorrow, a chance to fix what had been broken, a chance to right the wrongs of the past. Maybe that's what this was all about. Redemption.

Wesker's hand moved to the back of her neck, fingers clamping down on her suddenly fragile spine. "But I need you to tell me," he rumbled, his voice pitched low and intense, heavy with questions both subtle and implied, "that you're certain this is what you want. I want your promise, Claire."

Claire lowered her head, hiding her face in the warm crook of Wesker's shoulder. Beneath his jacket, the man burned liked the surface of the sun: hot, molten, and filled with fire, able to either sustain life or burn it away at a whim. Claire's stomach flipped dangerously and she pressed even closer. "This is what I want," she whispered, answering him beyond a shred of doubt. "And I'm willing to take all the risks. I told you, this is worth it. And I'm coming back. I promise."

Wesker's face was impassive, eyes glowing behind his dark lenses, but he wrapped granite arms around her body, removing her need for a skeleton, for a spine. There were no cheap romantic promises, no profound words of love, and yet the silence was the most sincere thing Claire had ever heard in her life. All around them, the snow fell a little heavier, blowing on the wind in a cloud of white. She had no idea what she was going to say to Chris when she got back home, or how she planned to face her future with Wesker, but she was resolved to make it work one step at a time.

Like she'd said, it was worth it.

* * *

><p><strong>Howdy, y'all! Sorry for the long wait, but here's a special extra-long chapter for the New Year 2012, which also happens to be the Chinese Year of the Dragon! I'm sorry I haven't responded to a lot of your kind reviews. I didn't mean to be rude or inconsiderate, and I want you to know that I appreciate everything. THANK YOU! ^_^<strong>

**Anyway, I apologize for taking so long, but this is all I've got for right now. I hope it's not too romantic or out-of-character. The holidays have been crazy (and wonderful!) and this is all I've managed to eek out of my muse, but the sluggish juices in my head are slowly beginning to churn again. I got both Resident Evil "Archive" art books for the Solstice and they've spurred my lazy ass to get creative again. They're an amazing source of RE inspiration! And while there's nothing earth shattering in them, they're chock full of details that either clarify some things for me, or put them in a new light. **

**For example, Wesker's character bio states, and I quote: **_**"The turning point for Wesker came when he was dispatched to the Arklay Mountains. He planned to defy his secret orders to obliterate STARS and obtain combat data."**_

**You hear that? It's called vindication for my AU!Wesker, bitches! LOL. **

**I'll start working on new chapters soon. As you can see, Claire's getting ready to go back to her brother. How is she going to explain that she's not only in love with Wesker of all people, but that he's really the good guy at heart, that the entire Arklay debacle was a tragedy rather than a betrayal? Heh, heh. Grab some popcorn, pull up a chair, and get ready for the show. Oh, and bring protective clothing 'cause it's all gonna hit the fan. There's something lurking in the shadows... something evil. Can you guys smell the foreshadowing? ;)**

**Love, Luck, Life and Light for 2012. I hope to be back soon! ^_^**


	22. Chapter 22: Homecoming

Claire took one last look around Wesker's room, feeling sick in the pit of her stomach. She wanted to be able to define the phrase "going home" as "leaving the island", but she couldn't. Not anymore. Mont St. Michel was her home, too, and she was happy with that. She only wished it didn't make things so goddamn complicated. What on earth was she going to say to Chris?

"Are you ready, dear heart?"

Claire took a deep breath and nodded.

"You're sure you don't want a private flight? It can be arranged," said Wesker.

"No, I'm sure." Claire nervously checked her passport and crammed it into the mini-backpack Sherry had loaned her for the trip. A cold metal case containing over a dozen syringes was already stowed inside. Claire swallowed, disliking the reminder, and hastily zipped it shut. She patted the cellphone in the back pocket of her jeans, repeating Wesker's private number in her head and trying in vain to continue looking busy. Wesker suddenly took her face between his hands, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes flared red, then gold, gleaming with a dangerous fire.

"I want you to be careful," he said, his voice pitched low and intense. He could feel his emotions trying to battle their way to the surface, feelings he'd locked away a lifetime ago, but no longer cared to control. "Once you're off this island, you're beyond my immediate protection and I can assure you that there are a lot of people who wouldn't waste the opportunity to hurt me through you."

Thinking about Sergei, Claire's stomach clenched into a cold knot. Falling in love with Wesker had been a dangerous thing to do and it left her feeling vulnerable in ways she'd never imagined. Now she realized that she wasn't the only one.

"I'll be careful," said Claire, swallowing the rock in her throat. There was a moment's pause as Wesker slowly reached up to remove his glasses. His golden eyes were dark and dangerously enigmatic, gazing at her with such powerful intent Claire wondered why she hadn't burst into flame already. Cradling her head in his hands, Wesker tilted her face up to meet his lips, momentarily smothering her. The simple pressure, the scent of Claire's body and the warmth of his skin, made Wesker's temperature ratchet up like a furnace.

Not that this fact was lost on Claire. She kissed him back and snuggled into his shoulder, putting her arms up and around the man's deceptively strong shoulders. "I'm going to have to leave more often if this is how you say goodbye," she groaned.

Wesker offered her a brain-melting smirk. "Make certain you come back and I'll show you how I say hello," he rumbled. "Unless, of course, you don't mind missing your flight today…" His hand ghosted down her back.

Far too tempted, Claire cocked her head at him. "So we've decided to get sneaky now, have we?"

"I do have a reputation to uphold, dear heart."

Claire shut her eyes and laughed, willing her hormones to behave. If she didn't leave in the next five minutes, she was never going to. Which was probably Wesker's plan, the diabolical bastard. But still, the offer was dangerously appealing. Claire decided that it would make extra incentive to come back. _As if I need any._

Ten minutes later Claire was on her way to the docks, Krauser stomping along behind her, dressed informally in a beige tee and belted cargo pants. Claire was mildly surprised. She'd figured she would be getting an escort, but she'd assumed it would be Ada. Either way, however, Wesker's marching orders had been the same.

"Make sure she gets on the plane," he'd growled under his voice, the implication being that if Krauser failed, the punishment would be unthinkable. Claire suppressed the urge to snort. The absolute power Wesker had over people was a little disturbing, but she couldn't help but find some kind of humor in the way Krauser had literally glued himself to her side, flexing his muscles and glaring to either side as if expecting masked kidnappers to spring out of the bushes. Even the secret service wasn't this agitated. But then again, the President didn't threaten to skip rope with their intestines, either.

"Claire! Claire, wait!"

They stopped to see Sherry hurtling down the hall after them, something red clutched in one hand. Skidding to a halt, she threw her arms around Claire. "Promise you'll come back," she demanded vehemently. "Promise!"

Bewildered and a little embarrassed, Claire patted the younger girl's back. "Sherry, come on! I already promised. I'm just going to visit my brother, okay? I'm not disappearing forever. Really!" she said, trying not to notice how impatient Krauser looked.

"Well, you'd better not forget. We've got school together this spring and everything!" said Sherry, finally pulling back and giving Claire some much needed personal space. Smiling, she handed Claire what she'd been carrying. "I wanted to give this to you before you left," she explained.

Claire knew what it was even before she'd gotten a good look. It was her old cherry-red leather vest, the one Chris had given her as a birthday present. Amazed, she took it with both hands, little chills raking her flesh. "I don't understand," she said to Sherry. "I thought I gave this to you."

"You wanted it to keep me safe and it did," said Sherry. "It got me back to my dad and Uncle Albert, so I want you to have it back so it can keep _you_ safe again." Sherry's eyes clouded. "You're… you're not mad, are you? I mean, we're still friends and all. I'm not trying to get rid of it or anything, I just thought—"

"Sherry, please. It's okay. I think it's wonderful," said Claire, slipping into the familiar garment. The leather creaked invitingly, giving off the warm aroma of saddle soap. Sherry had obviously taken very good care of it. Claire smiled, relishing the sensation. It was like being reunited with an old friend. She and this particular vest had been through a lot together, from her first motorcycle ride all the way through the horrors of Raccoon City. Truth be told, it meant something to her and she really was glad to have it back.

"Thanks, Sherry," she said, sweeping the smiling girl into a hug.

Krauser cleared his throat. "Sorry to interrupt, but we need to catch the ferry," he said gruffly, though he didn't sound very sorry at all.

Sherry stuck her tongue out at him, a ballsy maneuver Claire knew the younger girl would never have tried under normal circumstances. As they said, there was safety in numbers if Krauser decided to pounce. Claire resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She said her goodbyes to Sherry and they were off again a moment later, arriving at the docks with five minutes to spare. Claire took a seat at the back of the ferry, trying hard not to snigger. She knew she wasn't supposed to laugh – Krauser was only doing what Wesker told him to do – but watching him furtively check under the seats for bombs was just too good for words. His sweep completed, Krauser dropped into the seat directly to her left. Claire eyed him curiously, tracing the paths of his scars. Besides the one on his face, another scar adorned his right arm, thick and silver, the result of an injury that had almost peeled muscle from bone.

"How'd it happen?" Claire asked, trying for a conversation.

Krauser grunted. "Combat tour in South America. There was a T-Virus outbreak there about a year ago. Got pretty torn up." He flexed his arm, forcing muscles to bunch and bulge. "The normal docs said it would never heal, so I went to Umbrella."

"Is that how you ended up working on the island?"

He smirked at Claire. "Don't worry, Redfield. Unlike some people, I'm completely loyal to Wesker. You'd have to be insane not to be. Officially, governments are in charge of the world, but between you and me, Umbrella's got most of them by the balls. Nothing like the threat of a few dirty secrets to keep the pencil pushers in line, eh?" Krauser let out a gravely laugh. "I'm under orders from Wesker himself most of the time and that kind of command isn't easy to get."

"So you're in it for the power?" asked Claire.

Krauser shrugged his massive shoulders. "Why not? I was US SOCOM once and I got tired of playing second fiddle to all the pretty boys," he said, his gaze darkening. Claire sensed a personal connection to all this that he wasn't telling her, but she decided not to pry. "Besides," Krauser added. "I know what Wesker does to traitors and I've got a very selfish desire to keep my guts in my body, thanks very much."

Claire laughed. It was weird how everybody referred to Wesker. He was a tyrant who demanded 110% out of everybody, but at the same time he seemed to inspire a deep sense of loyalty in most of his subordinates. It defied all logic, but Claire was glad she'd decided to join Umbrella. It felt good to be sheltered in all of Wesker's power instead of fighting against it. She sighed deeply, watching flakes of snow settle on the windows of the ferry. About forty-five minutes later, she'd worked her way through the airport terminal at Le Bourget Airfield and was finally on the plane. First Class, of course. Even after she'd refused a private flight, Wesker had done the next best thing.

Settling into the large upholstered seat, Claire tried to get comfortable. The cabin smelled faintly of Lysol and pretzels, but it wasn't an unpleasant smell. There was an old man seated opposite her, and a young couple further down the aisle, but aside from that she was pretty much alone. Taking her purse, Claire pushed it beneath the seat and raised the shade on her window, peering out over the drizzly airfield. She scanned the terminal, looking for Krauser's red beret, but she was too far away to make anything out. She knew he was there though, waiting for the plane to take off so he could call Wesker and make his report.

Sighing, Claire leaned back in her seat as the plane began to taxi down the runway. The engines cranked up, going from a roar to a finely tuned whine. It was a nine-hour flight back to Colorado. She had that long to come up with a way to explain things to Chris. 

* * *

><p>"Ladies and gentleman, this is your captain speaking. We are now on our final approach to Harvardville. Please fasten your seatbelts and make sure all luggage is properly secured."<p>

Claire blinked groggily, picking her head off the wall. After a forty-five minute stopover in New York, she'd fallen asleep the rest of the way. Grimacing, she rubbed a crick in her neck, reaching over to click her seatbelt into place. She could already feel the plane beginning to descend. Five minutes later, it touched down on a runway even drizzlier than the one she'd left behind in France. Harvardville wasn't nearly as large as some cities, but in Claire's opinion it was large enough. Nestled in a valley, it was surrounded by granite-boned ridges and white pine forest, divided by a small river cutting through the northern half of town.

Hiking her purse over one shoulder, Claire joined the queue departing the airplane. The sky was slate grey and drizzly, and she could see great heaps of wet, muddy snow piled up all over the runway. Beyond the airfield, the mountains were white with more snow, their peaks obscured by a thick mantle of fog. Claire shrugged into her coat, scanning the brightly lit airport terminal. Here was the domain of linoleum and plastic and fluorescent lighting. All around her, the terminal was filled with the usual suspects: frazzled couples herding their kids, bored teenagers slouched in plastic seats and zoning out to their iPods, uniformed valets leaning on luggage carts.

Claire stomach rumbled, ungrateful for the overcooked chicken and four bags of airline peanuts she'd put into it. If nothing else, she wasn't going to face Chris on an empty stomach. She bought a large cinnamon roll and a cup of coffee at the food court, then found a seat at one of the terminal's sticky plastic tables. On the overhead TV, the local news was on, broadcasting the usual litany of violence and disaster. Doe-eyed local reporter Heather Eisley was standing in front of a huge cathedral, a behemoth structure of steel and distressed concrete.

"—built on the foundation of a Spanish mission believed to have been established in the early 1500s, the Church of Los Illuminados has just undergone a massive renovation due to a sudden escalation their unique religious faith," blared a tinny female voice. Claire absently unraveled her cinnamon roll. "The building behind me, dubbed the Steel Cathedral by local church-goers, is the result of a generous grant from one of Harvardville's oldest local families, though Mr. Salazar has declined to be on camera."

Picking up her coffee, Claire took a long drink. It was scalding hot and bitter, with not nearly enough creamer. She took another bite of her cinnamon roll. Glancing up at the TV, she saw that the image on screen had changed to a man in an elaborate purple cassock. His face was pale, creased with wrinkles, with imposing hazel eyes sunk deep in dark sockets. The video was muted, so Claire couldn't hear what he was saying, but he seemed excited, angry, and exultant all at once. A choir of young men and women were arranged behind him, but they weren't singing. The camera cut to a shot of a rapt audience, a hundred or more people all swaying back and forth in time to some unseen rhythm.

The camera panned up, glass and sculpted metal soaring to a dizzying height above the crowd. Set high in the wall behind the stage was a stained glass window in hues of blue, green and red, bright chunks of color surrounding an angular sigil. Claire suddenly noticed that the inside of the church was oddly dark, with only minimal overhead lighting. Any remaining illumination came solely from the window, its kaleidoscope of colored light offset by a massive number of drippy ivory candles. It was eerie in a way Claire couldn't quite describe and left her feeling cold. She chugged the last of her coffee as the camera cut back to the man onstage. A computer generated title appeared at the bottom of the screen:

_Osmund Saddler, Pastor of the Steel Cathedral_

Wadding up her napkin, Claire tossed it in the garbage and headed out of the terminal. After breathing recycled air for over nine hours, the cold mountain wind hit her lungs like a physical force. A row of cars and taxis were idling by the curb, clouds of thick white condensation erupting from their tailpipes. Claire hailed a cab and gave the driver directions, turning her attention to the city as they pulled out from under the marquee. It was late November and storefront decorations consisted mainly of brightly colored fall foliage. And, of course, turkeys.

Claire sighed heavily. Another week, and harvest theme would be thrown out in favor of blinking lights and tinsel. It was supposed to be the season for getting together with family, for telling your loved ones how much you treasured and appreciated them, not trying to explain how you'd fallen in love with _Wesker_. Chris had looked up to the man once, but after Arklay his adoration had turned to violent, bitter hatred. No matter what went wrong in his life, it was Wesker's fault. If anybody in the house got sick, it was Wesker's fault. If they ran out of sugar, it was Wesker's fault. Claire wondered how she was going to even convince her brother to _listen_ to what she had to say, let alone believe it. Did she even have the right to tell him about Alex?

Wincing inwardly, Claire let her forehead come to rest against the window. The closer she got to home, the worse she felt and if that wasn't a sign of impending disaster, she didn't know what was. They crossed the bridge leading out of town, the river churning murkily beneath them, and turned onto a rural highway. Harvardville fell away behind them, snow-covered pines and the occasional oak flashing by to either side, then dropping away to reveal massive vistas of the surrounding valley. Here, the snowfall seemed unseasonably deep and the road was crunchy with ice. Claire took deep breath and grimaced, the beginnings of nausea churning in her gut. The thick, cloying smell of vanilla definitely wasn't helping matters. Scanning the inside of the car, she identified the culprit: an exceedingly ugly yellow air freshener bobbing under the rearview mirror.

Sighing, she closed her eyes and tried not to breathe. She would have opened the window a crack, but the driver was scowling and looking anxious, nervously downshifting around an icy curve. An hour later, they turned down a muddy gravel driveway and Claire caught her first glimpse of home. The taxi stopped and the driver spun pointedly in his seat.

Sighing, Claire dug in her purse and pulled out a handful of crisp bills.

"Keep the change," she said, smiling wearily, and in an instant she saw the taxi driver decide that this trip into the sticks had been worth his time after all. Claire got out of the car, the bitter air cutting through the horrid vanilla stink permeating her brain, and she barely noticed the taxi pulling away. Staring at the house, she noticed the porch was filled end-to-end with cordwood, most of it covered by a blue tarp. Faintly, she could hear music from the kitchen: Jill's favorite radio station. Claire felt a pang in her gut so painful, she had to duck her head and blink away tears.

She started forward. Then with a sharp pang of alarm she quickly reached around and undid the clasp of her necklace, unhappily putting it in her pocket. She wasn't trying to hide anything, but Chris just didn't need to see it right now. _I can do this,_ she told herself, trying hard to believe it. _One step at a time._

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Claire ascended the stairs to the porch. Drawing aside the screen door, she noticed a wad of pamphlets – a _lot _of pamphlets, she realized, raising a bemused eyebrow – crammed beside the knob. Gifts from the local Jehovah's Witnesses, no doubt. Ignoring them, Claire stared at the door for several long minutes before finally summoning the courage to knock, her stomach a slippery knot of anxiety. She wanted to see Chris so bad, but she was afraid. Afraid of what he'd say, of what he'd think. A minute passed, but no one came to the door. Feeling as though the universe was taunting her in some way, Claire knocked again, harder this time.

"Go away!" Her brother's muffled shout took Claire by surprise. "We're quite happy being atheists, thank you."

Confused, she stared at the door, her eyes flicking back down to the wad of religious pamphlets. All at once, she understood. A wicked grin spread across her face and she knocked again, curt and insistent. And when there was no answer, she did it again. "Didn't you hear me?" Chris roared. "We're pagan heathens. Now get lost!"

Shaking with silent laughter, Claire rapped on the door for the fourth time. And she buzzed the doorbell, too, just to gall him.

"Sonvua bitch!" she heard Chris roughly get to his feet somewhere in the living room. Claire had just enough time to back off – wondering if her brother was pissed enough to go for his shotgun – before the door flew open with the force of an atom bomb. "Listen you sanctimonious pricks," Chris growled. "Get off my porch before I— wait, _Claire?_"

Claire's lifted her eyes to her brother's astonished face. He was wearing an AC/DC t-shirt and a pair of baggy sweatpants, a smoldering Winston in one hand, staring bug-eyed as if he was trying to figure out if she was actually there. She could almost hear what he was thinking: _Yeah… that's it, Christopher. You've finally lost it. Welcome to the nuthouse. _Claire swallowed an uncomfortable lump in her throat.

"…Claire? What the hell are you doing here?"

"Oh, that's real nice," said Claire, forcing a laugh. "And here I thought you'd be happy to see me, meatwad."

Chris lunged forward with a strangled cry and threw both arms around her, like he was expecting her to disappear in a puff of smoke. Tears sprang into his eyes and rolled down his scruffy cheeks. "Claire, I… oh, God. I thought I'd never see you again!" he groaned.

Claire squeezed her eyes shut, hiding against her brother's massive chest. He smelled just like he always did: soap and sweat and something remarkably similar to crayons, though Claire could never figure out why. "I missed you, Chris," she croaked, hugging him back. Over his shoulder, she noticed Jill come into the hall behind them. Confronted with what was happening on the porch, she stopped dead in her tracks, covering her mouth with a dishtowel. Claire weakly lifted her hand and waved. With a strangled noise of surprise, Jill tried push her way past Chris. "H-Hey!"

It was all she managed to get out before Chris dragged her into the fray so hard she banged heads with Claire, but the pain was sweet and real, a wonderful reminder that this wasn't a dream. "But Wesker…" Chris finally held his sister out at arm's length. "How'd you get away?"

A bittersweet ache settled in Claire's stomach. "I didn't. He let me go."

"…Excuse me, _what_?"

Claire sighed heavily. "Can we talk about this inside? It's freezing out here."

She let her brother pull her inside the house, various colored pamphlets sticking to bottom of her boots. Claire shook them off in hall and followed Chris into the living room, shrugging out of her coat as she went. Jill eyed it sharply as she draped it over the back of the couch, probably noting the expensive designer label Ada had foisted on her. Claire didn't know what kind of conclusion an ex-cop could draw from $300 dollars of silk-lined cashmere, but she desperately hoped it was something good. Chris laughed incredulously. "Okay, just where did you find _that?"_

Claire immediately thought he was talking about the coat, but then she realized Chris was staring at her leather vest. _Oh, that_. It was like taking a step back in time. "Sherry gave it back to me before I left," said Claire, smiling. "Cool, huh? I can't tell you how much I missed this thing."

Chris sat down on the couch, lacing his hands between his knees. "So, uh… how's she doing, anyway?" he asked.

"She's grown up a lot," said Claire, taking a seat beside her brother, "but I swear she's got the craziest mood swings. One minute she's all nervous and shy and needs your approval on everything, and the next minute she's bouncing off walls and telling you what to do and exactly how to do it." She laughed fondly.

Chris forced a wan smile, putting a heavy arm around his sister's shoulders. "So, are you alright? What about the virus you were sick with? Are you cured now?" The utter concern in her brother's voice made Claire's stomach tighten with guilt. All this time she'd been enjoying Wesker's intrigues, her poor brother had been wasting away with worry. She glanced around the living room, noticing the overflowing ashtray and more than a few empty beer cans. Cringing, she picked up her bag.

"Sort of," she said, showing Chris the little attaché case. "Alb— Wesker says that for some reason, I'm almost completely immune to the T-Veronica virus. Pretty freaky, right? What happened when I got sick was that too much of the virus sort of… woke up in me, I guess. Or something like that. Anyway, I've got to take shots every couple of days, but it's mostly under control."

"Mostly?" Chris demanded, frowning. "What's that suppose to mean? I don't like you taking drugs."

The _"any of Wesker's drugs"_ was left unspoken, but Claire knew full well what Chris really meant. "I don't like it either," she admitted. "But that's the way things are. He's already dialed the dose back quite a bit. I had to take an injection every day at first, but now I can get by with one every five or six days. Like I said, we're working on it."

Chris eyed the case suspiciously as she packed it away again. "Are you sure?" he asked. "What if he's shooting you full of something that's hurting you? I mean, are you sure you need them? Have you tried skipping a dose, or not taking any at all?"

Claire held in a sigh. "No, Chris, I haven't. And I'm not going to experiment, either. I got sick once and I'm really not that eager to repeat the experience, thanks very much. If Wesker's says I have to take injections, then I have to take injections. He knows what he's doing."

Her brother's eyes narrowed, but judging by his lack of response, he was forced to concede the fact.

"We're just so glad you're alright," said Jill.

"I know," said Claire, daring to meet the older woman's eyes. "And I'm really sorry you had to worry."

"Forget it. You're home now, so everything's good," said Jill, flashing a subtle look at Chris. The elder Redfield suppressed a snort, reaching across the coffee table for a pack of smokes. Flicking one out of the box, he lit up and took a long drag. Claire sighed gratefully. Jill was just as mistrustful of the situation, that much was obvious, but in the interest of peace she was obviously willing to suspend any and all arguments until later. Claire had never been more thankful.

"So, doesn't anyone what to hear about my adventures?" she asked nervously. Maybe "adventures" was too flippant a term to use in present company, but she was only trying to lighten the mood a little.

"Damn straight I wanna hear," said Chris. He exhaled a cloud of smoke and propped both feet on the coffee table in a would-be image of calm. "Have at it, Claire-bear."

_In other words, you know there's the story and then the REAL story_, thought Claire, wondering how much she dared keep to herself and how much she dared reveal. "Well," she began, leaning back on the couch. "It all started when I sprayed Wesker in the face with some Lysol."

Chris laughed darkly at the story, proud of his little sister's nerve. And now that Claire thought about it, it _was_ pretty funny. _That's how my romance started out_, she though dryly. _I burned his eyes out of his skull with some industrial strength germicide. _She fought back a snort and continued, telling Chris how she'd woke up in Wesker's room. The elder Redfield glared, who knows what running through his head, but Claire had already decided that while she wasn't going to share every single detail, she wasn't going to lie either. She told him about the island next, then how she'd finally gotten to go down to the greenhouse for some fresh air.

"Yeah, like a prisoner getting some yard time," Chris grumbled.

Claire ignored him. It was true, anyway, so there was no point in arguing. She told him about Sherry and how she'd met Dr. Connors, and how she'd eventually gotten an ID card of her own. "I felt bad for the poor thing," she explained, finally getting to the part about the rose. "And you aren't going to believe what happened."

She gave them a short explanation of how her blood had mutated the rose into something that pretty much threw Darwin out the window. "Wesker worked on it for almost a month before I figured out what was going on," she said. "He had this fancy party for all these rich CEOs – you know, the kind where everybody sips champagne and caviar, and pretends their shit don't stink – and announced the news to me in front of the whole room."

"Okay, back up." Chris interrupted, snubbing out his cigarette. "You wanna run that by me again? Are you telling me you were actually there? At his freaking _party_?"

Claire grimaced. "He dragged me along, yeah," she answered.

"And you went with him _why_? Were you nuts?"

"I thought if I went along and played his little mindgame I could escape while he was distracted."

"So what happened?" Chris demanded. "You could have called. I would have picked you up!"

"I know! I tried to get away, alright? But something didn't feel right and I didn't want to risk it. He was right there watching me," said Claire, which wasn't entirely untrue. _And dancing with me. And kissing me._ She suppressed a shiver. Now definitely wasn't a good time to think about that. Chris growled and lit another cigarette, coughing slightly. "Dirty bastard," he hissed.

If he only knew.

"So… what? This rose stuff is on the market now?" Jill asked. "It's gotta be loaded with T-Veronica, let alone what else Umbrella added to it. There's no way it's safe, right?"

"Not entirely, no, but it works. Believe me, it works," said Claire, knowing she was treading on some very tender ground. How could she explain what the serum did without sounding like she actually approved of it? It was way too early to admit her new feelings about Umbrella, but even so, she found herself skipping ahead to the part where Ada took her to see the hospital.

"Beth was really sick," Claire explained. "I mean incurably sick. She wasn't even supposed to live. But Wesker let the doctors test the serum and it worked. It really, really worked. And she's feeling so much better! I even think she was pregnant."

Jill looked torn between unease and amazement. Chris scowled around his cigarette. "Yeah, and I'm sure a shot of T-Virus was so great for the baby," he growled. "She could have died – her _and_ the freakin' kid – just so Wesker could see if his newest little cash crop was gonna pay out."

"She's Birkin's niece, Chris," said Claire. "She _agreed_ to the treatment."

"Whatever. The only thing that means is she actually trusted them to use her as a guinea pig."

Claire glowered at him, irritated for reasons she'd rather not examine too closely. "Well, I'm happy for her," she said. "As long as it's handled properly, I think the serum can help a lot of people."

"_As long as it's handled properly_?" Chris echoed, disgusted. "You know if I didn't know any better, I'd say you actually agree with this crap. You do realize that the whole hospital was probably an act, right? He's screwing with your head, Claire! Your blood made that rose possible, right? So as long as he's got you to play with, he can create a million more of the things."

"They're called Nightwish," Claire corrected snappishly.

"_Nightwish?_ He actually named the goddamn things?"

"Actually, I did."

Chris gawked as if she'd grown a new head, and Claire hastily snapped her mouth shut as the tension in the living room skyrocketed to new levels. Jill swallowed, her eyes moving between the Redfield siblings. "Oh, really?" Chris rumbled, dangerously casual. "You name any more of his little experiments?"

"No. He asked me to name the rose 'cause it was mine and I just did, okay?"

Chris lowered his cigarette, resting his wrist on his knee. "Did he hurt you, Claire?" he demanded quietly.

"What? No!" said Claire quickly. In the beginning Wesker had certainly impliedthat he'd use bodily harm to keep her in line, but he'd never made good on the threat. His personal code wouldn't allow it. The only hurt he'd ever really caused was the mental anguish, and Claire knew that wasn't what her brother was asking.

"Look, Chris," she began slowly, trying to make him understand. "Wesker saved my life. He took care of me, so there were no experiments or test tubes, or torture." She paused and cleared her throat uncomfortably. "And no, he didn't rape me, or whatever else you're thinking," she added. "I'm fine."

There was a protracted moment of silence. Chris flicked ash from his cigarette. "If you say so," he relented, obviously choosing to give Claire the benefit of the doubt, but it was clear that he didn't completely believe it. Claire decided it was all she could hope for right now. She exhaled softly and frowned, sniffing deeply. "…Is something burning?"

Jill shot to her feet with a cry and sprinted into the kitchen. Sharing a bemused look, the Redfield siblings got up and followed, getting there just in time to watch Jill seize a pair of potholders and wrench the oven door open. Taking out a casserole dish, she hastily put it on the table and pulled the lid off. Inside was the burnt, withered husk of Claire could only assume used to be meatloaf. She stifled a laugh as Jill cut into it with a knife. The only edible meat left was a golf ball-sized lump way down in the very middle.

Leaving his half-finished cigarette on the rim of the sink, Chris got a fork and speared one of the baked potatoes left in the oven, obviously trying to figure out if there was any dinner left to salvage. No such luck. Cut in half, the potato looked as though an extremely large spider had come along and siphoned it dry. "Yum," Chris announced wryly.

Jill groaned and Claire laughed until she cried, sagging against the counter for support. She had no real idea what was so funny, only that it was. And it felt good. It felt _normal_, just another day examining the questionable remains of Jill's latest attempt at cooking. Chris frowned, trying to work out if he should laugh, too, or be seriously concerned for his sister's mental health. Claire wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Sorry," she gasped. "How about pizza?"

"Pizza?" Jill shifted uncomfortably. "But you just got home. You sure you want to cook?"

"Why not? Somebody find me a bowl," said Claire, rolling up her sleeves and going over to check out the fridge. A hesitant smile appeared on Chris' face as his sister put cheese and tomato sauce on the table. After their parents had died, normal everyday chores like cooking and cleaning had fallen to the siblings. Easy stuff like Mac-and-Cheese, burgers, and, of course, pizza had always been at the top of the list.

"Pizza it is, then," said Chris, extinguishing his cigarette in an empty beer can. Jill shrugged and went to scrape the incinerated meatloaf into the trash and clear the potatoes out of the oven. For the moment, the discussion about Wesker seemed to have been forgotten. While Chris made the dough, Claire grated mozzarella and Jill cut an assortment of mushrooms, olives, and green bell peppers. If nothing else, nobody could say the Redfield household was lacking taste buds.

"I think there's some leftover chicken in the fridge," said Jill.

They put the pizza in the oven and sat down to wait, breaking out the ice and a couple cans of Coke while Claire told them how the Birkins had thrown her a pool party for her birthday. Chris obviously wasn't sure if this qualified as a good thing, per se, he was glad that his sister hadn't been mistreated during her stay. Claire watched him carefully, hoping that he'd see Sherry's continued good health as a sign that maybe he'd been wrong about Wesker's motives, but his brooding expression gave very little away. It was the first birthday of hers that he'd ever missed, Claire realized, feeling guilty all over again.

"I wish you could have been there," she mumbled.

Chris patted her arm. "It's okay, Claire. It's not like you could've helped it."

"Did you get any presents?" Jill asked curiously, ignoring the look she got from Chris.

"Yeah, a CD player and some music, a candle, and bathing suit so I could actually swim in the pool," said Claire. _Plus a diamond necklace,_ she added silently, remembering how shocked she'd felt when Wesker had given it to her. She curbed the sudden impulse to reach for where it usually hung, feeling naked without it. Panic swamped her again as she contemplated actually telling Chris the whole story. She couldn't keep it a secret forever – nor did she want to – but right now, the very idea terrified her. She knew how it was going to sound, how Chris would react.

Just then, however, oven timer dinged to get their attention. The pizza was delicious – thick, heavy, and bursting with flavor – and Jill used the opportunity to tell Claire about the church ministers that had been coming to the house for the last few months. Claire smirked mischievously. "Pagan heathens, huh?" she laughed. "Can I help sacrifice a goat?"

"Don't think I'm not going to get you for that, by the way," Chris growled, reaching across the table to ruffle her hair. Jill snorted into her Coke. "God, I wish I had a camera," she lamented, filling the glass up again. "I thought for sure you were going to blow her straight off the—"

She broke off as Claire quickly bent over her plate, spitting out a massive wad of cheese that had swung off the pizza and stuck to her chin. To her dismay, however, most of it fell onto the front of her shirt. Chris rolled his eyes. Some things never changed. "Eyes bigger than your stomach, Claire-bear?"

"Bite me," said Claire, picking the cheese off and glaring at the fat grease stain underneath. Jill pointed at the sink. "You better soak that right now or it'll never come out," she advised.

With a sigh, Claire heaved herself to her feet and ran the tap, tugging the shirt off over her head. She squeezed a dollop of soap on the stain and tried to scrub it clean under the running water, splashing the counter and the waistband of her jeans.

"Claire…"

Chris' voice was angrier than Claire had ever heard. Confused, she turned around to see him rising out of his chair, his dark eyes burning with such fury, Claire actually got scared. Reaching out, he roughly seized her by the arm and tugged it to eye-level. "Where did you get that?" he snarled, pointing.

Claire felt her heart sink. Chris was pointing to the thick pink scar on her right arm, the result of the injury Sergei had left behind with his knife. _Oh, God._ Claire looked up at her brother, saw the naked fury in his eyes, and knew exactly what he was thinking. She shrank against the counter. "Chris, it-it's not what you think!" she gasped, covering the scar with her hand.

"Yeah? Then what is it?" Chris growled. "That wasn't there when you left three months ago! What did that sonuva bitch DO to you?" He hugged Claire tight, shaking with rage. Claire desperately cast her mind out for some excuse, some white lie she could tell, but it was already too late. After seven years with STARS and all the horrors of both Arklay and Rockfort Island, Chris was all too familiar with wounds and the scars they left behind. And she knew he recognized that the one on her arm had been made with a knife.

"Where else did he hurt you?" Chris begged, and the broken quality of his voice cut Claire deeper than she'd ever thought possible. "Tell me, Claire. _Please._ I'll make it better, okay? I promise, I'll make it better."

Claire weakly pushed against her brother's chest, knowing the situation was rapidly slipping out of control and that she was powerless to stop it. "Wesker didn't hurt me," she insisted. "Somebody… somebody else did this. Please, you've got to believe me. I was down in the labs when—"

"The labs? What were you doing down in the labs?" Chris demanded.

"Just checking the place out. Wesker said I could look around if I wanted. We were dissecting a snake, but Birkin came in and wanted to talk to him, and I thought I could head back to the elevator myself," said Claire, grimacing with every word. _Dissecting a snake_? She wasn't just digging her own grave, but bringing in a backhoe to help, too.

"I was almost there, but the power went out and the leaches escaped, so I had to head back the other way."

"There was a biohazard?" Chris roared.

"It wasn't Wesker's fault! Sergei sabotaged the labs!"

"Who the hell's Sergei?"

"The chief of security," Claire explained. "Look, he found me in the hallway, alright? He's a freaking sadist! He had a knife and he cut me," she showed Chris her arm, "and tried to, you know… touch me."

Chris' eyes widened in alarm, and Claire hastily plowed ahead. "But he didn't, I swear! I got away! I was trying to find help when I ran into an ape. It would have torn me to pieces if Wesker hadn't shown up. He _saved_ me, Chris!"

Chris took a deep breath, his massive body shaking. Claire knew what he was thinking: He was the ultimate failure. He'd allowed his sister to be taken by that monster, allowed her to be manipulated and brainwashed, and probably raped. Claire winced at the thought and Chris immediately looked down at her, mistaking the motion for fear.

"It's okay, Claire," he soothed, trying to hold her close and take away all the pain, like he used to be able to when they were younger. "You don't have to lie anymore. You're safe. I won't let him touch you again. We'll leave tonight, go someplace he'll never be able to find us ever again."

Claire winced. "I _am_ safe," she protested, squirming out of his grasp. "I didn't _escape_ the island. I got on a plane and came home, simple as that. And Wesker's not coming to get me. He knows I'm here." She licked her lips, struggling to find the words to explain.

"He's not a bad person, Chris," she said quietly, and with all the sincerity she could muster. "He's not exactly a model citizen, I know, but he's not the monster you think he is. There's…" she paused, then heaved it out with a sigh. "There's just a lot of things you don't know."

Chris gaped at her. Behind him, Claire noticed that Jill had risen to her feet, twitchy and upset. The older woman opened her mouth, then closed it again as if not knowing what to say. "What the hell is that supposed to mean _"there's a lot of things I don't know"_?" Chris demanded, staring at her.

"Exactly what it means. There's stuff Wesker never told you – never told anyone. Please, you've got to go with me on this. You know they had him forced into some kind of supersoldier program? Umbrella, Spencer, they _did_ something to him. He's screwed up, I'll admit it, but he…" She trailed off, her words getting more and more uncertain. Claire's heart pounded against her chest, sad and frightened, but too stubborn to back down.

"He never wanted Arklay to happen," her final, damning admission came in a whisper. "He just wasn't in his right mind."

Chris looked as though he'd been slapped across the face. Pain flashed through his eyes, hardening instantly into bitter fury. "Do you even hear yourself?" he growled, voice lower than normal. "He wasn't _in his right mind_? Who knows how long he was planning it!"

"Months," Claire admitted weakly. "Spencer gave him the idea as soon as the outbreak happened, but he couldn't do it. He just couldn't. S.T.A.R.S really meant something to him. He was actually planning to betray Umbrella, but something… something bad happened. He…" Claire swallowed, her eyes shifting to the side. She wouldn't say it. It wasn't her tale to tell, no matter how badly she wanted to. "I told you," she finished evasively, "he wasn't himself at the time."

"Well, who was he then, besides a two-faced bastard?" Chris exclaimed, growing increasingly angry. "Listen to what you're saying! After everything he's done, after he murdered half of STARS in cold blood, you actually have the balls to stick up for him?"

Claire winced, but refused to back down. "He also saved my life," she pointed out angrily.

"Oh gee, maybe I should get on the phone and thank him for _kidnapping_ you."

"Yeah, maybe you should."

"I… I don't believe this," Chris groaned, throwing his hands up and placing them on the table, his broad back to Claire. For a minute, the only sound in the kitchen was the wet plop of water splashing in the sink. Feeling horribly vulnerable, Claire folded her arms across her chest. "What did he tell you, Claire?" Chris demanded, his voice dangerously soft. "What the hell did he tell you to make you think he's worth protecting?"

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Claire glowered. "He still has nightmares about Arklay!"

"How cute! He act that one out for you?"

"He had a 120-degree fever," Claire snapped, turning off the water. "You try spending all night watching him thrash around, and see how fast your tune changes. And it's not just that. I knew something was wrong long before he told me. You know Sherry saw him the morning after Arklay? He was crying! Crying over you, over what happened to STARS!"

"How can you possibly _believe_ that?" Chris yelled, completely ignoring Jill's attempts to intervene. "He's a conman, Claire! He tricked us into buying his act for years! That's what he's good at. I thought you were smarter than this!"

Claire grit her teeth. "And I thought you'd at least listen to me," she accused.

"Why the hell should I, when you're trying to sell me this absolute bullsh—"

"How about because I'm your sister and don't have any reason to lie to you? For God's sake, Chris, I'm not a stupid! I'm telling you this because it's the truth. You weren't on the island like I was. You didn't see the things I did. During the first couple weeks I was there, I called him a murderer and a coward, and he just about lost his mind! Do you have any idea how guilty he feels for what happened?"

"_Guilty?_ Ha! You think he felt guilty when he sat in his control room and took notes while we ran around that Mansion, dying and suffering, and getting our asses chewed off?"

"He tried to help you! You think good and hard about that night, and I dare you to tell me that it's not true."

Realization darted through Chris' eyes, reverting swiftly to anger. "Yeah, he helped, alright," he sneered, dashing Claire's hopes to pieces. "Handed us more ammo so we could put his little pets through the gauntlet and get him some proper combat data."

Claire scowled. "Now you're just twisting what happened."

"Oh, _I'm_ twisting what happened?" Chris let out a short bark of laughter. "That's really funny, Claire. You don't even know what you're talking about because YOU. WEREN'T. THERE! But you still got the balls you stand there and try to tell me I'm wrong, all because Wesker fed you some crap on a spoon and you're dumb enough to eat it up!"

"I am not!" Claire hollered. Up until now she'd been dreaming about convincing Chris to forgive Wesker, finally mending all the damage and mistakes, and having him at the wedding she wanted someday, but the fantasy was crumbling before it'd even begun. She felt embarrassed and utterly furious. She balled her hands into fists, struggling not to do something she'd regret. Jill frantically stepped away from the table, interposing herself between the siblings.

"Let's just calm down and talk about this," she said, trying to be the voice of reason. "Claire, please... think about what you're saying. I mean, Wesker… he's—"

"A lying, murdering, sonuva bitchin' traitor! And don't you DARE side with her!" Chris stabbed a finger in Jill's face, clearly remembering how his sister had come into Wesker's clutches in the first place. Jill frowned, finally growing angry herself.

"Look, I know you're still hurting about STARS," Claire said. "But what if I'm right? If you'd just think about it for a minute, you'd see that some stuff doesn't match up. Doesn't that bother you?"

"The only thing that bothers me is the crap coming out of your mouth right now," Chris growled. Panting and grimacing, he jammed a fresh cigarette in his teeth and lit up, hurling the lighter onto the table. "God dammit, pull your head out of your ass! He led us to that Mansion and left us to die. End of story! And I don't know what those drugs are doing to you," he jabbed the cigarette in Claire's direction, "but there is no way in hell I'm going to let you defend that man in front of—"

Chris gagged and suddenly bent double, coughing into his hands. Dead silence fell as he pulled them back, making a choked noise of dismay. Claire's heart lurched into her throat. Her brother's hands were covered in blood. The elder Redfield lurched, staggering and clutching at his stomach. Claire lunged forward to catch him, yelping as his greater weight pulled her to the ground, her knees impacting the floor with a solid _crack_.

"Chris! What is it? What's wrong?"

He doubled over in what must have been crippling pain, dropping his cigarette on the floor. He coughed, bringing up another gout of blood, and Claire felt him choke back the urge to vomit. Something moved and swelled under her fingers. She looked down as angry red and blue veins suddenly traced visible lines up her brother's arms. Terror and blind confusion clawed at her insides like a wild animal. "_Jesus Christ_, Chris," she desperately grabbed his shoulders.

Chris groaned, trying to curl in on himself, and Claire froze, shocked by the naked look of accusation in her brother's eyes. How could he possibly think that she had something to do with this? Her heart jumped into her throat as Chris arched back with a cry, suddenly going limp in Jill's arms. She shook him in horror. "Chris? Chris!"

Jill fumbled to see if he was okay. The front of his t-shirt was drenched in sweat, his heart pounding so hard and fast, Claire could see the pulse jumping in his neck. She looked back down at his arms, frightened by the swollen veins showing beneath his skin. She thought about just dragging him to the couch and waiting to see if he came around, but some deep instinct forced the notion aside. Maybe it was her time with Umbrella, her own experience with serious illness, she couldn't shake the sudden feeling that ignoring something like this would most likely make it worse. Everything in her was screaming red alert.

"He's going to the hospital. Help me get him up!" Claire ordered, tugging on her brother's shirt.

Jill swallowed, hesitated a moment, but one look at Chris and she was obviously convinced that now really wasn't the time to argue. Straining, the two women managed to hoisted Chris between them, dragging his unresponsive form out of the kitchen. Twice they almost went down under his massive weight as they struggled across the driveway to the car, turning their ankles in the snow.

Panting, Jill unlocked the door while Claire went around to the other side. She climbed headfirst into the backseat, sweaty palms slipping on the vinyl upholstery. The cold, dark interior was heavy with the smell of dryer sheets. Jill must have lost a box of them under the seat. Reaching out, she grabbed Chris' shoulders at the same time Jill took his legs, and together they heaved him in the car, arranging him on the backseat. In the cast-off glow from the porch, Chris looked ashen pale, blood drying to a crust on the inside of his lips.

"Start the car," Claire urged, shivering. She raced back into the house, seizing coats for her and Jill, and a something to cover her brother with during the long drive. Why did they have to live so far from civilization? _Why?_ Sick and frightened, Claire grabbed her purse off the floor and skidded into the hallway to pick up Jill's wallet, the urge to panic kept at bay by the pounding of _oh-my-god-I-can't-screw-up_ adrenaline. She flew back to the car, leaning in to cover her brother with a blanket. Chris was taller than the room the backseat could provide, resulting in his legs getting folding against the door. Claire did the best she could before toppling into the passenger seat.

"Go," she ordered hoarsely.

Jill threw the car into reverse and backed out of the driveway. The black, icy road gleamed in the headlights, forcing Jill to slow down and white-knuckle through every curve. She glanced down at the speedometer, saw the needle juddering just under 40. At this rate, it would take them over an hour to reach Harvardville. The panicky impulse to get sloppy was maddening and only her years at S.T.A.R.S gave her the discipline to keep it in check and not do something stupid. Like stomp on the accelerator and drive them off the mountain.

_Get a hold of yourself, Miss Valentine._

Unbidden, Wesker's voice suddenly cut across her brain and Jill went stiff, unable to help her reaction as the deeply ingrained command suddenly resurfaced. She'd spent several years in the U.S. Army's Delta Force training program, earning top of her class in bomb disposal. By the time she'd been recruited into STARS for her already well-developed fighting skills, Jill had been confident she could handle anything. Within a few months, however, she realized that managing dummy explosives in a controlled environment – where despite all your training you could still mess up and suffer nothing worse than a poor grade – was nothing like staring down a bomb in real life.

It'd been in the devastatingly hot summer of 1995. A group of eco-terrorists had taken over the Raccoon Nuclear Plant, claiming that the plant's operations seriously affected the health and safety of not only the river on which it was situated, but the entire city as well. At the time, Jill had sympathized with their cause, but they'd gone too far when they'd stormed the plant and taken the staff hostage, demanding the complete and utter cessation of the nuclear program.

STARS had been dispatched along with the regular SWAT, and after several hours of planning had managed to slip into the plant via the wastewater treatment lines. The hostage crisis had been averted. Or so they'd thought. SWAT discovered a bomb planted at the base of the main reactor, rigged with enough Anfo and homemade explosives to take out the entire building. To make matter worse, the resulting fallout would easily encompass both the local community college and the hospital, both situated less than five miles from the reactor.

Crouched in front of the bomb, a pair of needle-nose pliers in one hand, Jill remembered the gut-wrenching panic of realizing that a whole lot of people were going to die if she messed up, either by tripping the detonation herself or simply being unable to defuse it in time. Sweat dripped into her eyes, crusting her lips with salt. A younger, more slender version of Chris was pacing the floor just off to the right. "Come on, Jill! Shut it down!"

"I'm trying!" she screamed, scared and exasperated. "Do you have any idea what could happen if I cut the wrong one?"

Her hand shook, hovering over the red wire, then over the blue. Despite being homemade, the bomb was by far one of the more complex ones she'd seen. There were at least thirteen different colored wires, any one of them liable to set off the denotation. Jill dragged both hands through her hair, finally being to tremble outright. She couldn't do it. She couldn't remember, she couldn't _think!_

"Get a hold of yourself, Miss Valentine."

Captain Wesker's hand came down on her shoulder, fingers digging in painfully. His face was flushed and oily with sweat, clearly feeling the heat, but his hard expression didn't show it. Jill couldn't see his eyes behind his glasses, but she could feel their icy depths boring into her face.

"Panicking will only get you killed," he said coldly. "You need to stay calm, otherwise you'll only end up doing something stupid. I _know_ you have the skill to do this. This team is counting on you," Wesker shook her roughly, "so pull yourself together. That's an order."

Back on a rural highway in the Colorado Mountains, the heater was finally cranking out the BTUs, making the car nearly as hot as it'd been in her memory. Jill flipped the lever down a notch and opened the window. A thin blast of freezing-cold air knifed into the car, cutting through her daze. Claire was twisted around her seat, anxiously watching her brother in the backseat. Jill checked her speed, easing around a particularly sharp bend.

Wesker's voice was so clear, it was if he was sitting in the seat beside her. After all this time, why had that particular memory resurfaced now? She'd defused the bomb and everyone had gone home in one piece, but Wesker's words had stuck in Jill's head. Because when it came down to it the discipline she'd learned at STARS was really _his_ discipline, pure and simple. And no matter what else they'd faced after that she'd never lost her cool again. Even in the Mansion she'd reflected on the bitter irony of adhering to the lessons of a man who was currently trying to kill her.

A nauseating mixture of pain and confusion bubbled inside Jill's stomach. She smacked one hand against the steering wheel, grinding her teeth until they hurt and wishing she could hate Wesker in the same bitter, uncompromising way as Chris. But she couldn't and now Claire was throwing everything into serious hot water. After all, she knew the redhead well enough to know that she would never, _ever_ defend Wesker unless…

Jill violently shook the idea away as they finally turned into Harvardville. In the backseat, Chris was groaning and beginning to stir. Claire nervously patted his leg. Five minutes later, they pulled up to the hospital and the women jumped out of the car, opening the backseat to pull Chris out. He looked pale and sick, groggily looking around in an attempt to figure out where he was. Espying the glowing sign at the end of the parking lot, he gave a cry and dug his heels into the pavement.

"No," he growled, suddenly lucid. "No freakin' hospitals!"

"Shut up, Chris," said Claire. "You don't get a say in this."

With effort, the two women dragged him out of the car. There was a moment, perhaps, when they thought about going home, that they were simply overreacting, but then Jill looked down at Chris' forearm – saw the swollen red veins lacing together under his skin and the tiny dribble of fresh blood making it's way down his chin – and redoubled her efforts to pull him across the parking lot. The blanket flumped to the wet pavement and was abandoned. With Chris draped over their shoulders, his renewed strength already flagging, they stumbled into the brightly lit lobby. Claire shouted for a nurse.

With dreamlike clarity, Jill watched the doctors put Chris on a gurney and wheel him away, bombarding his sister with questions and massive clipboards of paperwork to be filled out. Numb and suddenly very tired, Jill ducked her eyes, squinting against the overhead fluorescents, and looked down at the floor. Around her feet, the red-and-white logo of the Umbrella Corporation spread out beneath her. _Our Business is Life Itself._

Chills shivered their way down Jill's spine.


	23. Chapter 23: Cry Little Sister

_**IMPORTANT NOTE: **_

_**Hi, everybody! I know haven't updated in a while, so I won't bore you with lame excuses, but I promised some of you something for the holidays and here I am putting my money where my mouth is. I don't know how many of you are still interested, but you need to know I updated the chapter BEFORE this one as well - (Ch. 22 Homecoming) - specifically the part where Claire reveals Wesker's alter ego. **_

_**Why? Because hindsight is always a perfect 20/20. After re-reading the chapter I realized how rushed and sloppy it was, not to mention it made Claire seem like a total airhead. *grinds teeth irritably* Someone also mentioned that the chapter suffered from jerky POV shifts and they were absolutely right. Therefore I updated the format of the entire chapter to deal with these pesky little issues and things are much better for it. And so we come to our Tip of the Day: if you write a chapter and sense there's something wrong with it, STOP. Do not pass Go. Spidey Sense does not lie. Something probably IS wrong with it. Ha!**_

_**You definitely might want to re-read the previous chapter to get a sense of where things are. Sorry if this messes anyone up! And here's hoping you enjoy the new chapter, too! I actually have the next one about halfway done, so that'll be along shortly... maybe even by next Sunday/Monday. Pfft. Fancy that, eh? Must be what the Mayans really foretold as doomsday. **_

_**A thousand pardons to anyone who sent me truly wonderful review over the past few months and didn't get a reply. I wasn't trying to be rude, so THANK YOU to everyone! I truly appreciate everything, believe it or not. And please excuse any and all butchery of hospital procedure and medical terminology I may have abused in the following chapter. LOL. **_

_**HAPPY NEW YEAR 2013! ^_^**_

* * *

><p>Claire blearily stared down into her cup of dull beige coffee. It hadn't been particularly hot when she'd poured it. Now it was roughly the temperature of lukewarm piss, and even that was a compliment. She gulped some down with a grimace, feeling the effects of a cheap caffeine buzz beginning to crawl up behind her eyes. Twenty minutes ago the doors of the ambulance entrance had burst open and a stretcher had hurtled through, propelled by a pair of EMTs in dark blue uniforms. Claire caught a glimpse of a man in heavy snow gear.<p>

One of the nurses rushed forward. "What have we got?"

"Snowmobile accident. Multiple neck fractures. There might be some internal bleeding as well. "

Hurtling along with the stretcher, the grey-haired nurse grabbed a passing intern without so much as a pause in stride. "Get me a unit of O-negative and meet me in Trauma 4."

Elevator doors lurched open and a moment later doctors, gurney, and patient were gone. Since then the admitting area had been silent. A priest in a dramatic red cassock was talking to the nurse at the reception desk, asking if there were any new patients. Feeling Claire's eyes, he eventually turned to smile at her. He was unpleasantly pale and bald to boot, the white apron going down his front displaying several obscure symbols that Claire didn't recognize as being Catholic. Seeing no reason not to, however, she offered him a polite smile in return, which he obviously took as a cue to approach her.

"You look troubled, sister."

Claire snorted. She had nothing against religious men, but any conversation with them was likely to be a long one and she just wasn't in the mood. "I'm in a hospital," she said, as if it were obvious. "What else should I be?"

"You have family here?"

"My brother."

The priest smiled and nodded, displaying yellowed but perfectly even teeth. "Have courage, then. Blessings often hide in the strangest of places." His voice was deep and a little raspy. Claire inhaled the deep, musky scent of his clothes. It reminded her of incense. "A new day is coming, sister. Its heralds are being chosen even now. Perhaps if your brother endures this trial, he will consider joining us."

He handed Claire a glossy pamphlet, the ring on his finger glinting slightly.

"Yeah. Maybe he will. And thanks," Claire answered, hoping Friar Tuck would take the hint since she had no desire to be rude, and to her relief that was exactly what he seemed to do. She watched the priest walk up the hallway and disappear around the corner, then turned the pamphlet over in her hand. On it was a picture of the new church downtown. _Déjate guiar su camino por Los Iluminados__ – Let the Enlightened Ones Guide Your Path. Become a member now!_ Well, that explained why the priest looked familiar. Claire tossed the pamphlet onto the table in front of her, and only then did she realize it was scattered with more of the same. That, and an outdated _Victoria's Secret_ with a scantily clad blonde lounging on the front. The hospital may have been Umbrella, but it had none of Wesker's class.

Suddenly feeling irritable, Claire took another drink of coffee. The tulip-pink chair she was sitting in was as uncomfortable as hell, so she hunched on the edge on the seat instead, glowering at the plastic hydrangea spilling over the edge of the receptionist's desk. _The one in France had real ones_.

She knew it was a stupid, ungrateful thought, but suddenly she couldn't help it. Her brother was coughing up blood, dying in the next room for all she knew, and she was feeling utterly helpless. She missed Mont St. Michel. She missed the feeling of knowing that everyone around her was powerful and competent. Wait… now where did that come from? Claire pinched the bridge of her nose, wondering if she looked half as bad as she felt. Just when had she come to put so much faith in Wesker? She had no reason to believe that the people here would be any less skilled, but even so, everything just seemed inferior.

The sound of footsteps drew her gaze as Jill rounded the corner of the hall, coming back from the restroom. Her short brown hair was damp and raked back from her face, the front of her shirt splattered with drops of water. She turned her swollen eyes in Claire's direction and stared at her, her face twisting, before turning to the coffee machine. The ex-cop hadn't said anything, but Claire knew Jill didn't exactly trust her.

_And why would she? She probably thinks it's my fault. _

Chris' sudden illness had all the hallmarks of the corporation they so hated and feared. And Claire knew full well that after how viciously she'd tried to defend Umbrella, it made her look guiltier than sin. The redhead swallowed, clawing the fingers of one hand through her hair. She distantly felt a trickle of coffee run down the side of her hand, drizzling from the tiny rent where her fingernail had punched through the cup. Was it possible that Umbrella had something to do with this? Claire angrily shook the thought away. Regardless of bad this looked – or how uncanny the coincidence – she wasn't going to start second-guessing herself. She had faith, but it wasn't blind. She'd gone through far too much for that.

She felt rather than saw Jill sit down in a chair several feet away. Lifting her head, Claire gave her a bleary sort of glance, hoping that it conveyed some kind of indication that she was suffering, too. Jill was watching her closely, watching the line of coffee dribble down Claire's wrist and patter on the floor, but she had no idea what the ex-cop made of that. Getting up, Claire threw the cup in the garbage just as the doors to the hospital proper flapped open like a pair of palsied wings.

"Redfield?"

"Here," said Claire, turning around as Jill hastily got out of her chair. "Is my brother okay?"

"He's still unconscious, but his condition's stable. You can see him now if you want," said the orderly. He was in his early twenties, blue-eyed and baby-faced, with a head of neatly combed brown hair. Switching a pen and clipboard to his other hand, he waved them down the sterile white hallway, past color-coded examination rooms and dim alcoves where spare wheelchairs and emergency medical equipment waited like alien creatures ready to suck vital fluids from the pliant bodies in their grasp. A heavyweight nurse drifted past, _Nikes_ squeaking on the immaculate floor.

"I'm Adam, by the way," he said to Claire, obviously trying to be friendly. "We've run some tests on your brother and… well, it doesn't seem like there's anything too seriously wrong, but I've got to ask: has he been ill recently? Something like the flu? His white-blood-cell count is through the roof.'"

"I wouldn't know. I just got home," Claire mumbled, feeling inexplicably guilty. She barely heard a word of the conversation as Jill filled in the rest of Adam's questions. They'd put Chris in a large recess directly off the hallway, meaning no walls or doors, just a pale green curtain that could be pulled around the bed for privacy. Here the lights were turned down to a comfortable level. Claire could hear _CNN_ playing softly from nurse's station just a little further up the corridor.

Chris was lying with the blanket pulled up to his chest, thick arms straining the sleeves of his papery hospital scrubs. Claire's eyes moved passed the IV tubes and monitor leads – at least they hadn't put him on a respirator, thank God – to her brother's face. The scruffy beard appearing on his jaw made seem years older. Gripping the bed rail, Claire felt as though her guts were being dragged up through her mouth. Somehow this was all her fault. All she'd wanted was for him to understand, to make everything right again… and it was such a selfish, stupid thing to do. Claire ducked her head, her expression pained.

"Which one of you is the patient's sister?" asked a voice.

Claire wearily lifted her eyes to see another doctor standing in the hallway. Her first impression of him was a short, heavyset man with dark eyes and a receding hairline gone grey at the temples, a waft of Old Spice following him into the room. Standing up straight, Claire introduced herself, wondering if there were going to be more questions. No, she didn't know what was wrong with her brother. No, he'd never shown similar symptoms in the past. Yes, she'd brought him to the hospital as soon as it'd happened.

"I'm Nigel Underwood," the doctor said. "I just got your brother's test results back from the lab," he snapped his fingers and Adam quickly handed him the clipboard he was carrying, "and I thought you'd like to know that he's going to be just fine. The symptoms you described – coughing blood and some fainting, correct? Your brother had a severe pulmonary embolism, or a blood clot in his left lung."

Underwood casually flipped through the chart he was holding. _"…Causing substantial internal bleeding and partial collapse of lung,_" he read aloud. "Also, I couldn't help but notice that his blood-alcohol content was quite elevated. Alcohol _can_ act as a blood thinner, and I've reason to believe that increased stress was also a factor." His dark eyes glinted softly. "Are you having family problems, love?"

Claire felt a muscle leap in her jaw. She liked Underwood less and less by the second. "What about the spasms?" she asked, completely ignoring the doctor's question about her personal life. Guilt roiled in her stomach, centering on the words "increased stress was also a factor".

"Well, essentially he was drowning," said Underwood. "His body began to seize in reaction. It's quite normal."

_Normal? You obviously didn't see him thrashing on the kitchen floor,_ thought Claire, but she didn't say so. Biting the inside of her lip, she glanced at her brother, struggling to recall everything that had happened. She had no reason not to except Underwood's prognosis… no reason except a strange uneasiness. She didn't know if it was instinct or paranoia, some silly byproduct of living with a scientist for the past four months, but it felt as though they were getting off far too easy. Frustrated, she followed Chris' IV line into the puffy pink vein on his arm.

"Ms. Redfield? Are you listening to me?"

Claire switched her attention back to Underwood. "Sorry, what?"

Underwood smiled indulgently. "I was just saying that besides the discomfort, I think your brother's healthy enough to be discharged. He _does_ seem to have a phobia for hospitals, after all." The doctor chuckled softly, ratcheting Claire's annoyance to new levels. "Perhaps you could find a hotel somewhere in town? Judging by your address, I wouldn't advise driving all that way in the middle of the night. I'd hate to see a car crash bring you back in."

Claire frowned, trying to figure out exactly what about this man got under her skin. The smug way he talked – as if they should be so lucky to receive his advice – made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. "We'll think about it," said Claire, her voice bordering on frigid. "Thanks."

"Anytime, love."

Claire grit her teeth as Underwood left the room. Adam lingered for a moment, biting his lip and looking for all the world like he wanted to say something, but a curt order from Underwood swiftly got him trotting along behind. Jill silently moved to sit down beside Chris' bed, acting as though all the strength had temporary flown out of her. Claire looked over at her, hurt when the older woman pointedly avoided her gaze. And she realized that no matter her reservations about Underwood or Chris' diagnosis, Jill wasn't prepared to listen should she try to discuss it. Feeling betrayed, a bystander in the drama she was silently being accused off, Claire drifted out of the room.

The hallway was nearly deserted. A few people dozed in plastic chairs waiting to hear news of a friend or relative. An old woman hobbled by, a clattering IV pole dragged in tow as she wandered in search of a place to sneak a cigarette. The air was sharp in Claire's nose, harsh with orange-scented cleaner and disinfectant. Picking a direction at random, she began walking just for the sake of movement. She felt jittery and tired. She knew she should probably eat something, but that was as far as she acknowledged it. All she really wanted was to crawl under a blanket somewhere and sleep.

Fighting the urge to do just that, Claire ducked into the ladies' restroom. Bent over the gleaming porcelain sink, she splashed some water on her face in an attempt to wash away the events of the night. Lifting her head, she surveyed her dripping reflection in the mirror. Tired blue eyes stared hopelessly back. _What am I going to do?_

The sensible thing would be to take Underwood's advice and find a hotel, but every time she closed her eyes she could see her brother's veins swelling and pushing through his arms, some even extending up the side of his face, and she had to ask, _What kind of a blood clot did that? _Something wasn't right. Chills skated down her back as she thought about her brush with the T-Veronica virus. Her veins had swollen then, too. Was that what Chris was sick with?

Without even stopping to think, Claire pulled out her cellphone and started dialing Wesker's number. Halfway through the process, however, she suddenly hesitated, her stomach tightening at the thought of how needy she was behaving. She hadn't even been gone a full day and she was already running back to Wesker. As if the man needed another ego stroke. She grimaced, remembering that her symptoms had been different: she hadn't coughed up blood, and she'd never lost consciousness that suddenly. And the swellings on her arm had been green, more bruise-like than anything else. Claire suddenly had to wonder, what if nothing _was_ wrong? What if she just had a bone to pick with Underwood and was letting her paranoia get the better of her? Her instincts screamed otherwise, but she had to remember that if she pulled Wesker into this, his involvement could turn a bomb scare into a nuclear catastrophe.

But the line had already begun to ring. Claire hastily flipped her cellphone shut, struggling with the increasingly painful lump in her throat. _It only rang once_, she told herself, not enough for Wesker's caller ID to have recognized the number. Torn between wanting the man nearby and knowing she should keep him a thousand miles away, Claire felt frustrated and lost, and angry enough to scream. Or cry. Whichever came first. Turning, she wrenched a napkin from the dispenser and dried her face. She had to get it together. It wasn't T-Veronica, she was pretty sure of that now. So whatever else it was, she'd just have to hang in there. She could always decide to call Wesker later if things became too much to handle. The thought gave Claire a small measure of comfort.

Behind her, the door creaked open. The soft, stealthy noise – not at all like someone else coming to use the restroom – immediately caught Claire's attention and she turned around to see Adam searching the restroom through the gap in the door, his eyes darting and skittish. Seeing Claire, his expression pinched into a weird mixture of relief and hesitation. In no mood to be flirted with, because that almost certainly the young man's MO, Claire tossed her wadded-up towel into the garbage.

"Can I help you?" she inquired coolly.

"Uh… yeah. I, uh…" Adam nervously stepped into the restroom. For a single awkward moment he stood against the door, fiddling with the stethoscope draped over neck. "Look, Claire… it's Claire, right? About your brother… I heard what Underwood told you."

"Yeah, so?"

Adam swallowed, a motion that moved his entire upper body. He bent forward to continue in a hushed voice, "I wasn't sure before, but I don't think he was being completely honest about the whole "blood clot" thing. There's been a lot of cases like your brother these last couple weeks. Fainting, throwing up blood, the whole nine yards. A lot of them get these crazy swellings, too." He made a gesture along the veins in his arm.

Claire suddenly felt sick. She _knew_ those veins hadn't been normal, but having it confirmed wasn't any easier. In fact, it made it ten times worse. "So Underwood lied to me? Why would he do that?"

"Protecting his bottom line, maybe? How should I know? They're saying it's just some new strain of the flu. You know, with everybody's jacked-up immune systems, but some old lady had the same thing last week and… well, she didn't make it," Adam finished lamely, color draining from his face as he realized that probably wasn't the most chivalrous thing to say. "Look, don't get freaked out! It's probably nothing! I just thought it was weird that Underwood didn't tell you, that's all."

Claire thought so, too. If an orderly knew more about what was really going on, did that make Underwood incompetent or just apathetic? As head resident, responsibility for the hospital fell on him. Was he trying to avoid a confrontation with the CDC? Maybe it would be better to call Wesker after all.

"I appreciate you telling me this. Really, I do," said Claire, trying to ignore the squirming feeling in her gut. "And I won't say anything about talking to you, if that'll make you feel better."

Adam offered her a nervous smile. "That'd be great, thanks."

After he'd gone Claire took a moment to lean against the sink, trying to gather herself. The coffee she'd drunk was roiling around inside her stomach, threatening to climb back up her throat. Claire blew out a shuddering breath, centering her attention on the cold porcelain pressing against her palms, and after a moment the urge to vomit passed. Filled with a renewed sense of determination, she left the restroom and headed back down the hallway, arriving just in time to see Underwood filling out a clipboard at the nurse's station just past Chris' room.

"Ah, good. I was about to come looking for you," he said, turning to face her. "I was just filling out your brother's release form, so as soon as his medication wears off you can be on your way."

He offered her the clipboard, smiling in what he obviously thought was a reassuring manner. "Just sign here, Ms. Redfield," he said. "I really hope tonight hasn't been too rough on you. If there's anything else I can do, please let me know."

Claire made no move to take the clipboard. "Actually, we're not leaving."

Underwood's smile grew decidedly tight. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me," said Claire, adopting the same philosophy she'd used successfully on Mont. St. Michel: _Act like you know what you're talking about, act as though you have authority, and people generally assume you do._ "I've had some medical experience and don't think a "blood clot" is the only thing that put my brother in the hospital. Something else went on and we're not leaving until I'm satisfied what that _something_ is."

"I see. Well, that's within your right, said Underwood softly, favoring Claire with an expression that was no longer a smile, but not quite a frown. There was a protracted moment of silence as if he were sizing her up with those marble-black eyes. By now used to Wesker's inscrutable gaze, Claire had no trouble glaring right back, pitting herself against the doctor in a silent battle for dominance. Underwood's lip curled ever so slightly.

"As your brother's attending physician, I feel obligated to point out that since I've given him a clean bill of health, any further hospitalization is likely to be unnecessary – and liable to be quite costly, since you seem to be without health insurance." Underwood's noxious smile gained some strength again. "I canschedule your brother for a checkup next weekend if that will put your mind at ease," he added generously.

Claire folded her arms. "Thanks, but I think I'd rather just take care of things now," she said.

It seemed as though Underwood had nothing left to say. Bracing the clipboard against his arm, he made a show of scratching something out with a pen. "As you wish, love," he said, smiling at Claire in a way that made her feel distinctly agitated, which translated into the desire to punch Underwood in the face. But she smiled back at him, using her greater height over the man to angle her stance slightly forward.

"Thanks, doc. I appreciate it," she said.

Underwood's eyebrow gave a spastic twitch, but he quickly took the opportunity to have the last word by informing her that any tests and procedures would have to wait for the next morning. Claire didn't rise to the bait, however, and assured him that would be fine, stepping aside to allow the physician to take his leave. Only then did she allow herself to release the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Still unaccustomed to the tenuous influence she'd learned to wield over people, she leaned against the nurse's station.

Suddenly she caught Jill watching her from the doorway. Realizing she'd been noticed, the older woman stepped out into the corridor. She kept one hand tightly clenched on her purse strap, if only to have something to hold onto as the silence stretched between them, with neither one knowing the easiest way to break it. But then again, Jill had never been one to do things the easy way.

"What are you doing?" she whispered softly, gazing at Claire with a kind of dread curiosity.

Claire felt as thought a gaping pit had opened up in her stomach. "Trying to make sure my brother's okay," she answered. Her voice was tired and strained, with none of the cool authority with which she'd challenged Underwood. Pushing off the desk, she did her best to face the other woman with what little strength she had left. "I'm scared, Jill," she admitted weakly. "I scared and I don't know what to do, but I'm trying my best. And that's the God-honest truth."

She waited to see anger or mistrust cross Jill's face, but instead the older woman nodded jerkily, tears spilling down her cheeks. Claire tentatively moved to close the distance between them, reaching out to put her hand on Jill's shoulder. Jill tensed, but made no move to brush her off. "I, uh… ha," she swallowed hard. "I'm sorry."

Claire shook her head. "Don't be. I get it. Things went to hell and I look like the bad guy. Believe me, I get it."

She didn't expect that to be enough, but even so, the tension between them seemed to bleed away. Maybe Claire had gotten through to her, at least for the moment. She hoped so. Neither one of them had anyone else right now. Without saying anything more, Claire gave Jill's shoulder a squeeze and sat down beside Chris' bed, smoothing imaginary rumples in his blanket. After a moment, she reached over and gave his sleeve a quick jerk with both hands, tearing it along the seam. She then did the same to the other. Jill laughed – a genuine if horribly fragile sound.

"He says he isn't on steroids, but then again, I have to wonder why I haven't got pregnant yet," she said wearily.

That did it. Dropping her head to her forearms, Claire began to laugh hysterically, salty tears tracking their way down her face. She heard a creak as Jill sat down opposite her, laughing away the stress, and for a moment it felt as though everything was going to be all right, but as Claire slipped her hand into her brother's – feeling the deep, sweaty heat of his skin – she had to wonder if that were true.

* * *

><p>The boardroom on Mont St. Michel was a grand, barrel-vaulted chamber near the top of the citadel. In its last incarnation it'd been an assembly hall for visiting popes and the occasional monarch, decorated in lavish tapestries and golden idols. Today, an enameled Umbrella logo dominated the head of the room, a not-too-large but far from subtle replacement for the coat of arms that'd once hung in its place. Massive windows lined either side of the room, providing a splendid view of the island below.<p>

"… your investment will be good hands, madam, I assure you," Wesker said, casually folding his hands on the table. The fabric of his expensive Armani suit displayed a slight glisten in the hot white sunlight. Without even knowing it, the corporate delegation couldn't help but bask in the sheer power of his presence. They even forgave him his odd quirk of wearing his sunglasses indoors. A few signatures and one or two million dollars would be the least they could do for a man so ingenious, so utterly devoted to the advancement of mankind. Even those people ordinarily viewed as being at the loosing end of the deal did seem to mind overly much.

Regina Miller was the owner of a small, but wealthy and highly respected chain of spas and health clubs in nearby France. They specialized in therapeutic research and natural healing, with their own research lab and pharmacy that developed most of their signature products. Chairman Wesker had contacted her several months ago expressing interest in her work, and talk had finally advanced to the prospect of merging with Umbrella.

"What happens if I agree?" she asked suspiciously. "What about my employees?"

"Their contracts will be transferred to me," said Wesker. For the second time that morning, he ignored the pager vibrating in his pocket. "I don't want to change anything about your company, Mrs. Miller. After the merger, you will merely continue your work under the auspices of Umbrella – with full access to our funding network, of course. I believe it will benefit us both."

Wesker smiled, displaying his perfect teeth. The sunlight flickered across his handsome face, making his features seem sharper still, and Regina felt a distinct flush of color spread across her cheeks, married woman or not. Unlike the hordes of blind old geezers and scheming CEOs that'd tried to buy her company in past years, Chairman Wesker had a surprising edge of sincerity. With him there was no talk of handing out pink-slips, or changing the way she did business, or of removing her from a position of power within the merger. He wanted her company to be part of Umbrella, no more and no less.

Regina allowed herself a smile. "So do I, Mr. Wesker. Where would you like me to sign?"

By 11:00 that morning, Wesker had shook everybody's hand at least twice and all of the necessary paperwork had been signed and filed away. Left alone in the empty boardroom, he leaned back with a smirk. With more and more people turning to natural healing, Umbrella could greatly advance its interests in the field with the help of a company as popular as the one he'd just acquired. Mrs. Miller would prove to be a valuable local ally, of that he was certain. So all in all, Wesker was in a glorious mood after having his ego stroked all morning. Tapping the intercom, he requested a cup of coffee before pulling out his PDA.

As expected, his Inbox displayed two missed calls. The first caller had disconnected before leaving a message, so he accessed the second one, his gaze narrowing sharply. It was an email alert notifying him that an Umbrella hospital in Harvardville had pulled Chris' medical records, momentarily leaving him wonder why on earth he was receiving it.

Shortly after the outbreak in Raccoon City, Valentine and the Redfield siblings had literally fallen off the map. At the time, there'd been several reasons for Wesker to want tabs on them – ranging from wanting to know the location of potential threats to Umbrella, to a deep-seated feeling of guilt and thus a responsibility to see that they were safe. Using Umbrella's extensive resources, his attempts to locate them included being notified if any of the three were admitted to a hospital. Wesker had never needed to use it, since Chris had eventually pinged Umbrella's radar while renewing his driver's license at a DMV in Harvardville, Colorado.

The email alert on his PDA was the result of a long-outdated safety net that he'd clearly forgotten to deactivate. Putting all that aside, however, it still didn't explain _why_ Chris was in said hospital. Frowning, Wesker scrolled through the message, his trained eyes skimming through the extensive admission form. _Redfield, Christopher… thirty-two year old Caucasian male admitted for oral hemorrhaging, severe chest pains, and periods of prolonged unconsciousness…_

The timestamp for admission was late last night, around 10:30 Central Standard Time.

Noting Claire's signature down as next of kin, Wesker's frown became somewhat of a glower, wondering if the missed call in his Inbox had anything to do with her. He was a cold man, but he wasn't entirely insensitive… at least not where certain people were concerned. He'd always made sure not to push Claire too hard, mindful of the consequences, but he was well aware of her emotional stress due to her four-month exile on the island. The thought of her going through real trauma beyond the grasp of his perfectly controlled environment – as it had been with Sergei's little stunt in the labs – made Wesker's fist clench. Like all Redfields, Chris had an unconscious knack for causing the greatest amount of trouble at the most inconvenient of times.

To his surprise Wesker found himself wondering if he should get involved, but after a moment's though he decided against it. While the symptoms appeared serious at first glance, he doubted they were life threatening. And besides, he had several very good reasons for staying away. While Claire would probably welcome him with open arms, he had no doubt that her brother and his live-in lover would be decidedly less than friendly. Wesker was just about to call the matter closed when a chart near the bottom of the report caught his eye.

As per standard hospital procedure, they'd run a tox-scan on Chris' blood. His blood-alcohol level peaked at just under the legal limit, a fact that made Wesker's lip curl slightly in disapproval, but his attention was drawn to another spike on the chart indicating his white-blood cell count. It was nearly off the charts, indicative of someone suffering from a severe case of the flu, except that the chart showed no signs of viral infection. Wesker frowned, enlarging the chart to fullscreen. Several other chemicals had peaked as well, including several obscure amino acids that had no right being that high.

_Impossible._

Sitting bolt upright in his chair, Wesker grabbed a nearby laptop and spun it around hard enough to send several folders hydroplaning onto the floor. Accessing the laboratory database, he entered his password and seven-digit security number, fingers drumming an impatient tempo on the table. He'd seen those protein spikes before, but how could the same readout appear half a world away in an unrelated subject? It didn't make any sense. But _if _they were the result of the same thing…

_Don't be a match. Don't you dare._

* * *

><p>Dozing fitfully beside Chris' bed, Claire had slept a grand total of two hours the entire night. She groggily tried to scrub the film from her eyes, feeling a slow, uncomfortable burn spread across the back of her neck as her circulation returned. Slouched in a chair on the other side of the bed, Jill was still asleep, her head cocked in a way that promised a stiff neck. All around them, the cacophony of monitors continued to hiss and beep and whir. Claire shot them a hateful glower. Somewhere down the hall, the local weatherman was making his morning report.<p>

"…_and with this area of low pressure making it's way across the mountains, we're looking at even more snow over the course of the day, especially for the higher elevations. Harvardville can expect five to ten inches of new snowfall, so expect chain controls on highways 50 and 80, and plan for long delays if you happen to be traveling through the Rockies. The high for today…"_

The rest of his report trailed off into a drone. In her current state, Claire couldn't even remember the weatherman's name. Getting up, she heard the vertebra in her back make a peculiar crackling noise, like an energetic horse prancing on a field of broken glass. Claire grimaced, old habits encouraging her to hobble over to the window. A thin, milky glow peered between the blinds, nearly invisible in the hospital's florescent lighting. It was snowing heavily. The parking lot was white with over several inches of snow, bare-branched ornamentals whipping back and forth in a stiff breeze. Claire couldn't even see the mountains behind a heavy cover of pale, brooding clouds.

Letting the blinds drop back into place, Claire turned around to survey the room. She was ravenously hungry and miserable and tired. She wondered if there was somewhere to eat inside the hospital, and if she'd be able to choke anything down if she found such a place. Chris gave a restless twitch, his head turning slightly on the pillow. His face was flushed and oily with sweat, his hair clinging to his scalp. Approaching the bed, Claire touched his forehead with the back of her head, stunned by the abnormal heat.

She went out into the hallway and called to the nearest nurse, who immediately came over to check on Chris' temperature. Claire was by no means reassured to see the readout on the thermometer hovering well in the vicinity of 102 degrees. Frowning, the nurse asked a couple of questions – mostly if Chris had woken up yet that morning – and when Claire shook her head no she moved to attach another IV line to Chris' arm. Jill stirred at the commotion, worry plainly forming in her eyes, and Claire dearly wished she had something to say that would reassure the other women.

"Should we get some breakfast?" Jill asked dully, after the nurse had left.

It was amazing how unwanted the idea of food became in certain situations. Claire made a face, but at the same time her stomach sent out a gurgling plea for nourishment. She'd needed to eat even if she didn't want it, so she grudgingly volunteered to go look for some coffee and a donut, though it was clear by the look of Jill's face she wanted nothing to do with food.

Except for the greater density of people roaming the halls, the dayshift at the hospital wasn't any different than the nightshift. Claire passed a crowd of chattering young men in scrubs, an old man leaning on a walker, and a haggard teenage mother trying to pull a crying toddler into an examination room. Claire followed the signs until they led her to a small cafeteria directly past the gift shop. The whiteboard behind the counter announced a breakfast special of egg sandwiches, hash browns and coffee, so Claire just went with that since the decision required less effort. The girl behind the counter blearily took her money and muttered something about her order being ready in a minute. Stepping back to wait, Claire decided that watchinga greasy-looking pizza spinning inside the display case wasn't helping to enkindle her desire for food, so she turned her attention to gift shop instead. It was closed for business right now, but offered a wide range of Hallmark cards, balloons, and stuffed animals. Chris would have loved the turtle with the Band-Aid stitched on its shell.

"Three breakfast combos to go?"

The clerk shoved a paper bag and a tray of coffee cups across the counter, and Claire headed back without stopping to allow any more unwelcome thoughts to creep in. She was relieved to find her brother sitting up in bed looking sick and miserable, but otherwise conscious. "Hey," she hastily deposited breakfast on the table. "How you feeling?"

"Like shit," Chris muttered thickly. "What have I told you about hospitals?"

"Just that you didn't like them," said Claire, putting her arms around him. "Seriously, though, how are you?"

"Let's see: I'm sweating like a pig, my head's throbbing, so which part of _"like shit"_ didn't you understand?" Chris grumbled, but he made an effort to return the hug. That was something, at least. "Is anybody going to tell me what's going on, or is keeping me in the dark a new thing around here?"

Choosing to ignore the comment, Claire did her best to fill in last night's events. She had a feeling Chris might raise a stink, but he was mercifully cut short when the nurse came by to take his vitals, drawing a sample of blood for his morning test. Chris didn't fuss about it, but he never took his eyes off the syringe either, eying it up like a poisonous viper. Right before she left, the nurse pulled plastic bag out of the cupboard and cracked it over her knee. "Let's try to get that fever down a little," she said, handing it to him. "Would you like some medication?"

"In your dreams, maybe," Chris muttered, holding the icepack to his forehead. "I'm outta here as soon as I can walk."

"Well, you let me know if you change your mind, and try to get some fluids down if you can. Alright?"

"Yeah, yeah. Fluids. Got it."

The nurse drifted back to her station at the same time Claire dug into the bag she'd gotten from the cafeteria. "You heard the lady, meatwad. Here," she said, holding out a bottle of orange juice. "You want something to eat, too? I've got McMuffins in here and some hash browns."

Chris gagged pointedly, so Claire handed them to Jill instead. With Chris awake and being his usual I'm-sick-and-crabby self, Claire was feeling infinitely better than she had earlier. She emptied several packets of cream and sugar into her coffee, and took a tentative sip. Thankfully it was much better than the mud she'd siphoned out of the machine in the lobby. She sighed as the scalding brew sent hot snakes wriggling through her belly. Maybe she'd even try to eat something. Maybe. Groaning, Chris twisted the cap off his orange juice and gulped down half the bottle before pressing the icepack over his eyes, his expression twisting.

"You sure you're okay?" asked Claire.

"Ask me that one more time and I'll dump this over your head," Chris growled. He sounded uncomfortably short of breath, but Claire couldn't think of a reason why. "And I'm not done with you either, so don't think you're off the hook," Chris added, before she could say anything.

Sharply reminded of the fact, Claire looked away. She nibbled on her hash browns, listening to the TV further down the hall. Further storm reports brought to mind flashlights, oil lamps, and a noisy generator – at least for Claire. Living as remotely as they did, they lost power at the house at least once a winter, sometimes even two or three times depending on how bad the weather was. Except for the inconvenience, though, no one truly minded since most of the time it just became an excuse to make s'mores over a stove burner. Her meager appetite gone, Claire suddenly would have given anything to be home right now. With a sigh she offered Jill the rest of her hash browns and crumpled the greasy bag into a little ball, halfheartedly licking the salt from her fingers.

"Hey," called a friendly voice. "How y'all doing this morning?"

Swiveling around, Claire saw Adam standing in the hallway. He looked tired, a can of cherry _Monster_ clutched in one hand, but that didn't seem to have dampened his cheerfulness. "Alright, I guess," said Claire, returning his nervous smile. "You work the day shift, too?"

"Have to. Med school doesn't come cheap," said Adam, coming over and depositing a pile of newspapers on the table. "Here, I brought you some stuff from the waiting room. Might be some crosswords in the back if somebody hasn't filled them out yet."

"Thanks," said Claire, even though she had no intention of doing any crossword puzzles. She liked Adam, though. He reminded her a bit of her brother – when he was younger, anyway. Speaking of which, Chris was watching the intern with something akin to suspicion, feverish eyes glinting with an all-too familiar message: _No, you can't have her, so back off._ And given her knowledge of this, Claire didn't know whether to laugh or cry. If he discovered her romantic entanglement with Wesker, the destruction of Pompeii would seem like a fart in the wind by comparison. She winced as Chris suddenly let out a sharp cough, rubbing his chest with a grimace. Adam reached up to fiddle with his stethoscope.

"I, uh… I'm glad you're still hanging around," he said in an undertone.

"Yes, funny how that turned out, isn't it?"

Adam blanched at the voice, only barely keeping from spinning around on the spot. He settled for casting as anxious glance over his shoulder. This morning Underwood was dressed in dazzling white flannels and button-down shirt with his white lab coat overtop. Without the advantage of Wesker's height, however, Claire thought it made him look like a pudgy blob of whipping cream. She could accept not having heard him coming, but she had to wonder why she hadn't _smelled_ him. The scent of Old Spice was almost overpowering, as if Underwood equated taking a shower with drenching himself in cologne. Coming forward, he shot Adam a decidedly unfriendly glower before turning his attention to Claire.

"Good morning, Ms. Redfield," he said, affixing a plastic smile to his face. "I trust you're doing well so far?"

"So far," Claire agreed, getting to her feet. "What about those tests?"

"Of course, of course. I just stopped by to check on your brother's condition." His eyes slid past Claire's shoulder to fix on Chris. "He does seem to be doing better – aside from the fever, that is."

"I feel fine," Chris wheezed, grinding his knuckles into his chest. Real pain was starting to show on his face.

"I'm sure you do," said Underwood smoothly. "However, your sister seems to think you need further treatment, so let's get the ball rolling, shall we? Your blood tests came back negative for drugs, and your alcohol levels have dropped considerably, so I think we'll start with a urine sample – check for any hormonal imbalances."

"I don't… need to take a piss test!" Chris growled indignantly. He levered himself, trying to swing his legs over the edge of the bed, and Claire moved forward to intercept, dismayed to realize that Chris had begun to shake. He hunched forward with a groan, heart monitor beeping. Jill anxiously got to her feet. "Chris…?"

"I think it's best if you don't get out of bed," said Underwood. "With a temperature like yours you really ought to be sedated, or better yet at home getting some rest. I could administer it right now if—"

"No!" Chris snarled.

Underwood clucked his tongue irritably. "Really, now! Is your whole family this stubborn?" He dropped his hand on Chris' shoulder. After that, Claire would never really remember exactly what happened. Chris began to cough and shake, the air leaving his body and refusing to return. Emergency klaxons filled the room as his heart monitor climbed with terrifying speed. Claire let out a cry of alarm, but before she could move someone crashed into her shoulder from behind, knocking her aside with a startled _oomph_. Adam and two other nurses were suddenly all around her, wrenching the bed curtains aside so hard they nearly tore off the rail.

"He's seizing. Hold him! Hold him down _now_!"

They gave Jill a no-nonsense push and grabbed hold of Chris as best they could, trying to pin him down. Adam fumbled inside the cupboards, trying to draw a vial of clear liquid into a syringe. Muffled, bloody gasps tore their way from Chris' throat as Underwood hastily retreated to the edge of the room. One of the nurses waved a penlight across Chris' face.

"He's going into shock," she said. "Intubate him."

Moving quickly, the nurse tilted Chris' head back and attempted to guide a plastic breathing tube down his throat. He jerked and gagged, fighting her the whole way. Panic surged higher in Claire's chest as the nurse shouted for a sedative. The heart monitor wailed and beeped, spiking erratically. "Pressure eighty and rising."

"Get out of the way!"

Wrenched back to a place halfway around the world, Claire's heart came to a stop as Albert Wesker suddenly brushed past her, his hair and leather trench coat dusted with snow, glittering wet in the overhead lighting. For a frantic moment, activity around Chris ceased as the nurses turned to look at the intruder. One of them made a frantic move to intercept him. "Sir, I need you to get out—"

Wesker curtly shoved her aside, placing a thin metal case on the nearby table without breaking stride. Flipping it open, he removed a helix-shaped syringe. Chris arched off the bed, fingers curled into claws as he gasped desperately for breath. He gave a choked cry of surprise as Wesker shoved him back down with inhuman ease, restraining the worst of his struggles as he stabbed the syringe into the fleshy part of Chris' arm. Scrambling desperately, the nurse fled the room to get security. Chris let out a shuddering moan, his lips tinged blue from lack of oxygen. Wesker fumbled to reach something amidst the cluster of devices and monitors.

Without needing to be told, Claire was suddenly at his side. "What do you need?" she gasped breathlessly.

"Oxygen mask."

Wrenching the cupboard open, Claire knocked everything out onto the floor until she found the requested item, shoving it into Wesker's outstretched hand. Turning the flow up to maximum, Wesker pressed the mask over Chris' face, a task made all the more difficult as he attempted to throw his head to the side, fighting the invasive presence.

"Enough, Redfield," said Wesker sharply. "I haven't given you permission to die yet! Now breathe!"

It seemed a cruel order, but Chris' entire body heaved as he struggled to pull air into his lungs, Wesker's voice triggering a long-buried instinct to obey. Flailing, his hand clamped over Wesker's so that both of them were clutching at the oxygen mask. Shoving his free hand beneath Chris' armpit, Wesker hoisted the larger man to a sitting position and that seemed to help.

Trembling with the strain, Chris sucked in another massive gulp of air. Whatever Wesker had injected him with, it seemed to be working. The blond glared at the heart monitor, watching the erratic spikes begin to slow one BPM at a time. Chris drew in a short, raspy breath. Then another. And another. Claire reached out, putting both hands on her brother's shoulders as if that would help somehow. Wesker's elbow jammed into her side. She felt beads of cold water from his coat seep through her shirt, sending a cascade of shivers down her back. It was a surreal moment. She had no idea why he was here, and she didn't care. All that mattered was Chris. Blood spattered the inside of the oxygen mask as he coughed, but at least that meant he was getting air into his lungs. Wesker pressed his hand between Chris' shoulders.

"Easy, Chris… Slow down. Inhale through your nose."

It was if somebody had thrown a switch. Suddenly conscious of his rescuer, Chris' snapped his head around, recognition suddenly kindling in his eyes. Fear, anger, hatred, shock – more emotions than Claire could count flashed through what little she could see of his expression. He tried to pull out of reach, but most of his body wouldn't respond. One hand fumbled on Wesker's sleeve, too numb to make a fist. Only a minute had passed since the man's arrival, but suddenly the nurse was back with an anxious-looking security guard in tow, hand on the gun at his hip.

"Hey, you! Step away from the bed, hands where I can see them. Do it now!"

Wesker shot a glance over his shoulder. "Hold this," he ordered, indicating the oxygen mask. Claire took over for him as he turned to face the guard, striding purposefully across the room. The guard tensed and drew his gun partway out of its holster.

"That won't be necessary. My name's Albert Wesker. I trust you understand what that means, or do I have to waste my time explaining?" he asked coolly, lifting one side of his coat to reveal the ID badge clipped to the inside pocket. Claire was aware of Underwood making a minute spasm towards the wall: rigid, staring forward, his face as white as gauze.

"Wait… _chairman _Wesker?" the nurse demanded, eyes widening slightly.

"That's correct. And I have every authority to be here, I can assure you," said Wesker. Claire noticed that he made no attempt to apologize for the abruptness of his arrival. _Ask me why I'm not surprised,_ she thought, feeling a wave of hysteric laughter bubbling up in her throat. She glanced back to her brother. By the jerky movements of his eyelids he was barely keeping conscious, so she lowered him back to the bed. His hand dropped away from the oxygen mask, and Claire found herself unable to look away from the dark spatters of blood dripping from its interior. She didn't know if it was okay to take the mask off to clean it up.

_Why is this happening? Why?_

Distantly she heard the nurse asking about Chris, but Claire barely paid any attention to how Wesker answered. Her legs wobbled, forcing her to lock her knees to keep from falling. When had the ward gotten so crowded? She noticed Jill glancing spasmodically between her and Wesker, almost as if she believed Claire had somehow conjured the man from thin air. Adam was staring, too. And so was Underwood, now fumbling in his coat pocket for a roll of antacid tablets. Further down the hall the priest Claire had met the previous evening was standing at the end of the ward, guiding the beads of a rosary through his spidery fingers, his expression tinged with such an edge of malice Claire felt shaken to her very core.


	24. Chapter 24: Separate Ways

**_*puts on thick Transylvanian accent*_ I bid you velcome, my peeps! Listen to it – the sound of my keyboard. Vhat music it makes! LOL! Here's hoping you enjoy some long-awaited chapters. Yes, you heard that right. Chapters. Plural. I didn't get any DeviantArt stuff done for these chapters, but oh well. I blame my non-existent weekend. On a minor side-note, my muse says I probably should do a Disclaimer, so here you go:**

**Resident Evil and all places and characters therein are copyright CAPCOM, Nintendo, and whoever else. I own nothing except the plot and a motley crew of retarded OCs. ****WARNING: I recommend donning protective clothing before reading. It's all gonna hit the fan this chapter and I'm not held liable if any of it gets in your hair. Heheh.**

**Happy Summer Solstice, and THANK YOU all for hanging in there! I appreciate it greatly, since it's ultimately your kind reviews that kick me in the ass and get me writing again. You've probably figured out my _modus operandi_ by now – i.e. post a new chapter, then slink back to my crypt for several months. Aiiieee! The sun! It burns us, my precious! We dares not update too often. LMAO.**

**Oh, and one more thing. Would you mind going to my profile here on FanFiction and taking the poll there? I'm curious to see how most of you are finding my story! ^_^**

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter 24: Separate Ways<strong>

Claire felt like she was trapped in a bad dream. Twenty minutes ago she'd finally given in to her upset stomach and gone to throw up in the restroom, wishing that she'd never eaten. Somebody in the next stall hurried out without washing their hands, and Claire wondered if she really sounded that bad. She staggered over to the sink to rinse her mouth, not at all surprised to realize her hands were shaking. So much for that famed Redfield toughness. Stepping out of the bathroom, Claire tensed as she heard alarms going off in the room down the hall. Only when the overhead speaker paged a doctor to room 235 did she relax. Chris was in room 266. Walking forward, she saw Wesker standing near the window where the cell reception probably didn't suck as bad. He stood rigidly, phone pressed to his ear.

"Grounded? For how long?" Wesker growled, frustration clearly showing in his voice.

Claire didn't know what he was talking about, but she could guess. Hugging herself, she glanced out the window. If nothing else the storm seemed to have doubled in intensity, smothering the hospital in an all-encompassing blizzard. Highway traffic was inching forward in the wake of a large snowplow, orange beacons flashing. Claire was suddenly certain that Wesker had landed on the tarmac mere moments before they'd started rerouting flights to other airports – assuming, of course, that he simply hadn't gotten on the horn and announced that he was coming down anyway, with the added threat of a substantial lawsuit if there was so much as a beat cop at the gate.

Further up the hall the double doors bounced open. Claire glanced over her shoulder to see a team of doctors push her brother's gurney into a private room, a dark-clothed man following them at a distance. He disappeared quickly into an adjacent hallway, but not before Claire glimpsed the combat boots he was wearing. It struck her as strangely out-of-place – one more thing to add to the list, she supposed, a chill skating uncomfortably down her back – but she didn't get the chance to investigate. Snapping his cellphone shut, Wesker moved to intercept one of the doctors.

Glancing inside the room, Claire found herself unable to tear her eyes from her brother's face, which was nearly as white as the sterile tape they'd used to hold his nasal cannula in place. He was breathing normally now, but still unconscious. Claire swallowed hard, a rustle of paper drawing her attention back to Wesker. He'd pulled several charts out of the folder, including an x-ray film at the very bottom. He held it up in front of the light fixture without pausing to look at anything else, frowning at the milky white and black image. Claire had no idea what he was looking for.

"Is he going to be okay?" she whispered.

"For now," said Wesker quietly. He lowered his gaze to her, papers clutched loosely in his gloved hand. A strange, fragile quality seemed to hang between them and Claire was struck by the irrational fear that if she blinked, Wesker would suddenly disappear. He was wearing a black suit over an equally black turtleneck, his presence weighing so heavily on his surroundings Claire felt as though she was liable to start orbiting around him. She swallowed tightly, unable to find anything to say.

"You almost called me earlier," said Wesker, and it wasn't a question. It was a declaration of fact.

Claire's belly twisted a little, color rising to her cheeks. So he _had_ seen the Caller ID. "I, uh… I thought…" she awkwardly cleared her throat. "Well, it wasn't this bad before," she added lamely, trying for something in her defense even if she had no real idea why.

"If you were sure about that, you wouldn't have called. You were scared," said Wesker flatly. Embarrassed by his characteristic bluntness, Claire felt a sudden flash of anger, but it faded as quickly as it'd come. Wesker was right. She _was_ scared, and doing her damnedest not to show it. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. "It's complicated," she admitted finally, her eyes instinctively going to Chris.

There was a protracted moment of silence. Both of them knew an explanation wasn't necessary. After a minute, Claire turned her gaze back to face him. "Do you know what's wrong with him?" she asked, indicating the papers Wesker was holding.

"It's nothing you need to worry about."

Claire gave him a black look. "He's my brother," she reminded him sharply. "If there's anyone who needs to worry, it's me!"

Wesker was silent for a moment, as if trying to decide how much he should tell her. "Your brother's contracted a rare parasitical infection," he said at length, keeping his voice low. "The trauma of it hatching inside the body is enough to shock the host into violent convulsions, and later unconsciousness." He studied Claire for a moment, waiting to see if his words were sinking in. She gave him an openly horrified look. _That's exactly what happened in the kitchen! _

"Afterwards, the parasite can place a massive amount of stress on the body as it attempts to mature," Wesker continued, not bothering to sugarcoat his report. "It causes a dangerous increase in the host's white blood-cell count, which can lead to further convulsions as the body tries to fight the invader. A weaker person would likely assimilate the parasite without difficulty, but the stronger and healthier the body, the worse the strain. I believe mindset plays an important role as well, so it's hardly a surprise he went into shock again… although I doubt the performance enhancers are helping," Wesker added frostily, glaring at Chris.

Claire's head was spinning. Infection? _Parasite?_ She swallowed, feeling the discomfort in her throat give way to actual pain. She couldn't believe she was actually hearing this. "That… that doesn't make any sense! How do you know all this stuff? And what the hell are you doing here? What did you give him?" she exploded, waving urgently at Chris. "And why is it every time one of us gets sick, you come storming through the door?"

She didn't mean to sound so accusing, but if Wesker noticed he didn't say anything. Instead his hand rose to grip the back of her neck: hot, solid and reassuring. "Being chairman of Umbrella has its advantages," he said quietly. "I received an email early this morning alerting me to your presence here, but I assure you I wasn't planning on getting involved."

"Then why did you?"

"Because I've encountered this type of infection before," Wesker answered darkly. "As I said, the parasite can trigger severe septic shock, and fortunately for your brother I was correct in assuming the same thing would happen to him. I gave him an injection to stabilize his immune system and help suppress the growth of the parasite. That's all."

Claire frantically shook her head. Not denying what he was saying, but desperately trying to make sense of it. How had Chris gotten sick in the first place? Had something bad from the island gotten on her clothes? The entire plane could be sick. And Jill, too! Wesker's hand tightened on her neck. "Don't go there. It's nothing you did," he assured her calmly, as if he'd read her mind.

_And it's nothing you did, either. I know. We're past that, _she thought, sensing what Wesker wouldn't say aloud. She cleared her throat roughly, fighting the convulsive sob trying to crawl up it. "Then what happened?" Claire asked, struggling not to fall apart as Wesker's intense heat seeped into her personal space.

"I'm not certain," he said. "I'll know more once I get him to better facilities."

Claire felt as though the world was crumbling beneath her feet. It was bad enough Wesker was involved, but if he was considering taking Chris back to Mont St. Michel… no, she didn't even want to think about it. "Is it that serious?" she croaked. _Please, please just say he's going to be alright!_

A sigh escaped him. "His chances will be better on the island. Just trust me."

_Just trust me._ It was the straw that broke the camel's back. Whatever Wesker wasn't sharing, it was bad, but she'd known that all along, hadn't she? She knew his tactics, his habit of dodging the subject. Claire angrily dashed tears from her eyes. "Why do these things always happen to u-us?" she demanded, her voice cracking. "Why?"

"I don't know, dear heart."

And Wesker pulled her tightly against him. Claire's hands instinctively fisted in his jacket, her shoulders heaving as Wesker rested his chin on top of her head. His whole body was taut with a fierce kind of tension, fingers digging painfully into her as if he forgot, or perhaps didn't care to control his awesome strength. Claire gulped back a sob, clinging to Wesker as though he was the last stable thing left in the world. She hated breaking down like this. It felt too much like giving up, an invitation for the little boy to pull his finger out of the dike.

Claire tilted her face up, suddenly desperate to say something, _anything_, but she was cut off as Wesker's mouth abruptly descended on hers, the startling red flash of his eyes burning through to the back of her brain. It was nothing like the passionate encounters she'd experienced before. It was impulsive and bruising, making no other movement other than to effectively silence the words tumbling from her lips. It was all the assurance Claire needed, because in that one instant she realized that she didn't need to say a damn thing.

Somewhere in the distance she could hear Chris' EG monitor – was it beating faster than before? – but it was only a peripheral detail. She forced herself to concentrate on the feeling of Wesker's sweater and the pressure of his mouth, because that was all that mattered right now. _Everything's going to be okay_, she told herself, repeating it over and over like a mantra. _Everything's going to be okay… _She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with Wesker's scent. A moment later his hands moved to rest on her shoulders, giving them a reassuring squeeze before pushing her back to arm's length. Uncomfortably aware of her runny nose, Claire grimaced and wiped it on her sleeve. _Yeah. Real mature, Claire._ _God_, _I must look like hell._

"I want your brother's care officially turned over to me," said Wesker. "There's some paperwork you need to sign."

"Hospital giving you a hard time, Mr. Chairman?"

"Hardly, but it'll save me time in the long run."

Claire's watery laugh was without humor. Apparently even the chairman of Umbrella fell victim to his own regulations. It was almost kind of funny. Almost. Nodding, she stepped sway from him and went directly to the nurse's station to ask for whatever paperwork Wesker had wanted her sign. As per the usual, it amounted to a weighty stack. She hated the way the nurse kept staring at her, but she took a deep breath and ignored it. On the wall behind the counter, a small TV was playing at low volume.

"…_widespread power outages have been reported all over the area, including most of downtown Harvardville. Reports of an explosion at the police station have not been confirmed, but if you'll look just over here… this giant tree toppled onto several power lines just hours ago. Scenes like this are being reported all over the city, and local power crews are saying it's likely that over a thousand residents will be without electricity for—"_

There was a loud, muffled thud. Claire glanced up at the TV in time to see the camera hastily swing around to focus on a flash of light in the distance, the pale sky rapidly giving way to the fiery smear of a small explosion. The startled reporter hastily resumed talking off-screen. _"We've just witnessed what appears to be a small explosion coming from downtown… possibly from another gas leak or a downed transformer,"_ she added. _"We'll bring you more on this story as it develops. As you can see, this storm clearly has a few more surprises in store for today…"_

Annoyed by the distraction, Claire returned her attention to the paperwork. She hated hospitals, she was sure of that now. She hated the constant movement of doctors rushing from one room to another, the never-ending hiss and beep of machines and monitors. And most of all, she hated that stale, salty reek of _sickness_ that no amount of disinfectant seemed able to cover up. Their overall function was the same, she supposed, but it was nothing like the clean, orderly, almost welcoming feeling of security in Wesker's labs.

There was a slight breeze at her elbow, smelling of alcohol and soap. Claire glanced out of the corner of her eye to see Jill step up to the counter. She'd stripped down to a light blue t-shirt, shivering slightly and rubbing her arm. Between her fingers, Claire noticed a patch of gauze. "You okay?"

"He made me get tested for… for whatever, I guess… which I'm assuming means this isn't the flu," said Jill, starting slightly as Wesker suddenly turned the corner.

"Hnn. That goes for you as well, dear heart," he said to Claire. "As soon as you're done."

Claire nodded mutely. It was scary how well she was attuned to Wesker's mannerisms, aware of how he slowed – no more than a brief hesitation between one step and the next – to glance at Jill, the sparks of his eyes meeting hers from behind his shades. Jill paled, but met his gaze squarely, unconsciously reaching for something beneath her sweater. Wesker's lips twitched into a sharp smirk. They faced each other for no more than a second, but Claire could almost feel the tension radiating between them like waves of heat distortion. Then suddenly Wesker was gone, stalking down the hall to disappear into an examination room. Jill exhaled sharply, a faint cry escaping her lips. Claire didn't know whether it was out of relief or dismay.

"Claire, did you… did you call him here?"

"No. But even if I did— you know what, never mind. He's here now, so deal with it," said Claire shortly. She wasn't trying to be angry, but she was too tired to even _think_ about having that conversation right now. Jill snapped her mouth shut, her throat bobbing uncomfortably, and Claire felt a sharp flash of regret. She shoved the clipboard across the counter and braced her shoulders. "Sorry, Jill," she whispered. "I'm just…" _I'm just what? Scared to death about Chris? Wishing I could tell you what's really going on? _

Claire swallowed hard. "I'm just tired. Let's leave it at that, okay?"

Jill looked as if she was about say something, then seemed to change her mind and nodded instead. Claire nodded back, fighting the uncomfortable tightness in her throat as she asked Jill where to go next, trying not to sound like she was looking for an excuse to leave. Jill didn't say anything about it, however, and simply pointed back down the hall. Claire spent the next few minutes sitting perfectly still on an examination table as a doctor drew blood from her arm. The clock on the wall said it was only quarter past noon, but the hours felt more like days.

Claire winced as the doctor placed a cold stethoscope against her back. She wanted nothing more than to curl up somewhere and sleep, but… no, she had to stop thinking about that. Claire exhaled roughly, focusing on the icy metal pressed between her shoulders. It was uncomfortable and that was good. It cleared her head. It was hard to believe right now, but things could be much worse. She needed to stop thinking about Mont St. Michel as a bad thing and remind herself how lucky she was that her brother had that option at all. Wesker had things under control for now, so the least she could do was cowboy up and help wherever she could. Claire took a deep breath, trying to think rationally. If they were going on an extended trip, her brother needed clothes – jeans, shirts, underwear, whatever – and so did Jill. _And I forgot my injections_, thought Claire, remembering the little backpack she'd left in the living room. _I probably need one by now._

It wasn't much, but it was a plan and right now she needed something to focus on. The doctor taped a piece of gauze over her arm and sent Claire on her way. She headed straight for Chris' room, figuring she'd check on him first, then get the car keys from Jill and make the 45-minute drive back home. _But the storm…_ Claire glanced out the window and felt a twinge of doubt, wondering if Chris had put chains on the Subaru. She couldn't remember. Maybe it would be better to wait it out for a few more hours. She put her hand on the door and heard a voice inside the room. Chris, most likely. Jill's voice countered. She sounded agitated. Claire opened the door.

"—saved your life. That's got to count for something!"

Jill broke off and turned to look at Claire as she entered. Chris was sitting on the edge of the bed tying his shoelaces. _Why is he dressed? Are we getting ready to leave?_ His head jerked up, impaling Claire with his eyes. Her breath caught. She had never seen Chris look so angry, rage etched into every line of his stark white face. "You!" he snarled. "What the HELL do you think you're doing?!"

"I_—_ what? What are you talking about?"

"You know damn well what I'm talking about, you stupid _bitch_!" Chris roared, getting to his feet. Claire's mouth fell open. Dread coiled in her stomach like a poisonous snake. "After everything I told you," her brother continued, "everything that's happened, you go and tell him we're here? What were you thinking?!"

_Wesker. He's talking about Wesker._ Claire swallowed the pain in her throat. "Chris, please, it's not_—_"

"It's not what? 'Cause from where I'm standing_— Get off me, Jill!" _Chris angrily wrenched his arm out of her grasp and pushed her away, glaring venomously before rounding back on Claire. A muscle was leaping violently in his neck. "I saw you," he gritted. "I saw you and _him_. I was hoping when you got back, _praying_ you weren't this stupid, but I should have known. I should've just let you go out with that rookie, but no! Now I have to watch you… watch that _bastard_… How long did he hold a gun to your head before you agreed to hump him the first time?"

Dread crystallized in Claire's lungs, suffocating her like folds of heavy plastic. Chris filled her vision until she felt miniscule in comparison, a piece of flotsam caught in the ferocious gravity of a sun going nova. _It's not supposed to happen like this. _The tender marks on her arms where Wesker had dug his fingers throbbed accusingly, her lips burning with the memory of his bruising heat. Her throat closed off, swollen with a mixture of anger and helpless panic. "Chris, I…" she desperately fumbled for words. "Wesker didn't… he never_—_"

"Save it," Chris growled, cutting her off again. "Damn it, Claire, how could you let him do this to you?"

"He didn't do anything to me! If you knew half the stuff I do about Arklay, about Alex_—_" She broke off, infuriated by the utter _unfairness_ of it all. She wanted to tell Chris so badly, and a sadistic, less than pretty part of her wanted to smear it in his face, too, but she just couldn't bring herself to betray Wesker's trust. Chris' expression was positively ugly.

"Oh, so it's _Alex_ now, huh?" he taunted. "That your cute little name for him while you two screw around?"

Claire was horrified. To hear Wesker's worst demon mocked like that… it was beyond just being unfair. Her stomach twisted into sick, slippery knots. "You wouldn't say that if you knew the hell he's been through," she said, her voice low and cold, and shaking with rage.

"The hell _he's_ been through? Oh, that's right: _'He wasn't in his right mind, he had a fever, he's not really a bad person!'_" Chris flung her words back at her like knives, his voice disgustingly shrill and mocking. Claire's face burned. "He just saved your life, you asshole!" she hollered. Her fists clenched. She was going to bloody his stupid face.

"Yeah, how convenient. This shit doesn't happen for years, then I _magically_ get sick and he just _magically_ shows up. And then you walk straight out there and start signing me away to him! He plays you like a pipe and you're so stupid, you waltz right into it. How could you DO this to me?" He viciously stabbed a finger at her. "We're done, Claire. Do you hear me? You and I are done!"

A gasp escaped Claire. She fought for words, her heart stuttering painfully. "You- you don't mean that! Chris, I'm trying to help!"

"I don't need your help," Chris snarled. "Yours, or his!"

"Chris, _please!_" Jill interrupted, suddenly grabbing hold of his arm. "Sit down!"

"No, I'm outta here! Whatever he shot me full of, I'm not being his experiment, you hear me? She can sign all the goddamn papers she wants. I'm leaving right now, so get out of my way!" Chris started forward; Jill stubbornly tried to pull him back. "I said_—_"

"That's enough, Chris," said a cold voice. Claire gasped as Wesker brushed by her in the doorway. "You're making a scene."

For a nerve-racking moment, the world seemed to freeze on its axis.

"YOU SONUVA BITCH!" Chris lunged forward with roar, hands outstretched. Seemingly without any effort, Wesker slid beneath Chris' arm and came up behind him. Alarmed by the sudden breech of his personal space, Chris simultaneously tried to spin around, punch Wesker in the face and sidestep out of the way, stumbling as his body received conflicting inputs. In one quick motion, Wesker snaked an arm around Chris' throat and hauled him upright against his chest. "I said _enough_!" he ordered.

Wide-eyed and trembling with fury, Chris tried to throw his weight forward with the intention of hurling Wesker over his shoulder, but the taller man firmly held his ground. The arm around Chris' neck tightened with the crushing strength of a python. Though she was only a couple feet away, Jill stood frozen in place, a worrisome glint of understanding in her eyes as she made no move to prevent what was happening.

"N-no! You can't keep me here!" Chris choked, thrashing wildly.

"Watch me," said Wesker. His arm tightened even further, cutting off the precious flow of blood thrumming in Chris' arteries. Frantic now, Chris' struggles increased, but his knees had already begun to unhinge, darkness oozing into his vision, and Wesker still didn't release him. Chris blacked out with a strangled groan, his heavy arms dropping limply to his sides. Cold and frightening in his efficiency, Wesker held him for a moment longer before depositing him back on the bed, handling his massive bulk with near inhuman ease.

Claire felt like she was dying, suffocating, an engine trying to rev on bad fuel. Hot tears prickled in her eyes. She never thought she could feel so angry, so utterly helpless. No wonder Wesker had never tried to explain things to Chris. She knew her brother had been hurt and betrayed, but how could he be so impossibly _dense_? A nurse poked her head into the room and demanded to know if everything was all right since she obviously hadn't seen a thing. It would have been funny if it weren't so pathetic. Claire's head was pounding now, tiny voices screaming and playing tug of war. She glanced frantically around the room, saw Jill's car keys gleaming on the side table. Without saying anything, Claire grabbed them and bolted, escaping down the corridor without looking back. Doors and examination rooms flashed by to either side in a meaningless blur. She reached the front entrance, and suddenly she was outside.

A blast of frigid air sliced through her clothes, invading her lungs as though it wanted to freeze her pounding heart. Snow whirled down from the white sky, pelting her face with big wet flakes and clumping under her boots as she strode across the parking lot. The Subaru was exactly where Jill had left it, now buried under a foot of snow. Claire raked it off the windshield with the side of her arm, too upset to worry about the cold. In half a minute, she'd cleared the entire car, unlocked the door, and gotten inside. Ramming the key in the ignition, she turned the engine over and flicked on the wipers. The wail of a siren suddenly drew her attention as an ambulance swung under the marquee. Two EMTs jumped out of the back and pulled a gurney out, blood bags and IV lines in hand as they wheeled their patient through the doors and into the hospital without breaking stride. A third EMT quickly shut the door and jumped back inside the cab as the ambulance pulled out to make way for a second one. In the distance, Claire could hear the wail of several more en route.

She put the Subaru in gear and he backed out of the parking lot, feeling snow chains bite into the road. The freeway was grey, slick and wet, but the snow wasn't deep – barely an inch or less. Wipers flailing, Claire turned down the first exit and merged with traffic. Another ambulance flew past with a screech, followed closely by a patrol car. Claire tightened her grip on the steering wheel with a cold, almost manic fervor, her heart beating frantically against her ribs. She didn't know why she was running, only that it was important that she did so _before_ she did something she'd regret. Like hitting her brother in the face, or screaming at Wesker for being so goddamn… well, _Wesker_. Claire grit her teeth and refused to cry. She had to be able to see the road, after all. The last thing she needed was to cause a twenty-car pileup. She wondered if she should have stopped Wesker, or said something to him. Was putting Chris is a headlock really necessary?

_Yes, it was,_ she thought vehemently. _He wasn't going to stop and you know it. He'd have walked out and gotten himself hurt or killed, or had another heart attack and died. _Her brother's accusing words sliced through her like knives. Why the hell wouldn't he just _listen_? She'd never let anybody hurt him! How could he possibly think otherwise? A clump of snow broke loose from her sleeve and plopped onto her lap. Suddenly Claire realized she was shivering. Reaching across the dash, she flipped on the heater and knocked the snow from her jeans. The Subaru sped down the highway as fast as she could convince herself was safe. Bright blue utility trucks sped by in the opposite direction as Claire piloted the car down the next off-ramp, and within minutes she was leaving the chaotic city behind.

She told herself she didn't have to feel ashamed for loving Wesker, but still… she hadn't wanted Chris to find out like that. She wanted to work him up to that somehow; she hadn't been stupid enough to think it'd be easy, but she'd been so sure he'd at least listen first and yell at her later. Apparently not. _And now he thinks I betrayed him, too._ Claire roughly cleared her throat, fighting another wave of tears. Was it really so selfish of her to have hoped they could work things out? She'd thought Chris would be happy to hear the real story behind Arklay. He'd looked up to Wesker once. Worshipped him even – like a substitute father. Claire had been so sure he'd want to hear how hard Wesker had tried to save them, even going so far as to sacrifice his own life. _Now Chris is sick, and he thinks Wesker did that, too. God dammit, why? What the hell kind of karma do we have to deserve this shit?_

Claire smacked her hand on the steering wheel. A sliver of icy-cold air knifed into the car from the open window, but Claire didn't mind. Time slipped by, as did the cold white world outside the car. She'd left the city far behind and was now driving along a deserted mountain freeway. The sky was a little darker now, the woods a little grayer. Claire raked the heel of one hand across her cheeks, ridding them of the moisture slowly freezing on her skin. A shrill chime suddenly pierced the silence and she jumped, a full five seconds passing before she realized what the sound was. Without taking her eyes off the road, she dug a hand into her pocket and took out her phone. Lifting it up, she checked the glowing LED display, knowing even as she did so who it would be. She swallowed hard, then took a deep breath and flipped it open with a finger.

"Tell me, why is it Redfields have this self-destructive urge to do stupid things?" Wesker demanded.

"Genetics, I guess," said Claire weakly. "Shouldn't you be used to it by now?"

Wesker snorted, his voice pitched low and intense, maybe even a little angry. "Where are you?"

"On the highway heading home."

"Why?"

"Because I needed to get out of there before I did something stupid," said Claire, forcing the lump out of her throat. She knew she didn't have to mention the fiasco with Chris – or Wesker's part in it. "I just need some time to clear my head."

Wesker growled deep in his chest, and Claire knew exactly what _that_ meant. "I don't think that's wise," he said tightly. "The roads aren't exactly in the best of conditions right now, especially since your brother decided he needed to live in the middle of nowhere."

"Actually there was a place even higher up that he wanted to move into, but Jill talked him out of it. It didn't even have electricity," said Claire, trying for a stab of humor, but Wesker didn't seem impressed. Just like she knew he wouldn't. She heaved a weary sigh. "I'll be fine, Albert," she said quietly. "The roads aren't that bad right now, and I've driven them enough winters to get the hang of it anyway. November in Raccoon City wasn't exactly the sub-tropics either, remember?"

"Claire…"

"I'll be on the plane when we leave," said Claire. She was used to her brother being overprotective, so Wesker wasn't all that different. "I'm just going to throw some stuff in a suitcase and drive back down – two hours tops. It's not like you're going anywhere right now. Not with this storm."

There was silence on the other end of the line, as if Wesker was weighing his options. "Two hours," he said shortly. "I want you back down here before nightfall."

_Or you'll march up here and carry me back down. _"Before nightfall," said Claire. "I promise."

She hung up and set the phone on the seat next to her. She continued north, the storm slowly getting worse as she climbed in elevation. Claire nervously leaned over the steering wheel. Maybe Wesker was on to something with his "stupid Redfield" theory. Suddenly her own obituary flashed in her head: _Stupidity linked to genes! Claire Redfield, age 23, proves hypothesis beyond a doubt after wrapping herself around a tree._ Claire snorted without humor and downshifted. The Subaru slowed to a crawl.

It took Claire an hour and fifteen minutes to make the supposed 45-minute drive. Encountering over a foot of snow in the driveway, she stubbornly plowed the Subaru in as far as it would go and trudged the rest of the way to the house. The front door was wide-open, the carpet dusted with snow. She'd obviously forgotten to close it during their hasty exodus the previous evening. Feeling irritated, Claire went inside and shut the door. The house was dark and freezing cold. A quick flip of the light switch confirmed what Claire already suspected. _What a surprise; the power's out. The pipes have probably frozen solid by now._

Claire went into the kitchen, the cold reek of garlic assaulting her nose. The dinner dishes were still on the table, half-empty glasses of Coke sitting exactly where they'd been left. A hard lump rose in Claire's throat. Even her worst days on the island hadn't felt this hopeless. _All right, that's enough. Wesker's expecting you back in two hours and you've already burned enough time getting up here like the idiot that you are. _Claire shivered violently, her teeth clacking together. Goddamn it was cold in here.

Spotting her vest and sweater on the back of a chair, Claire gratefully threw them on before piling all the dishes in the sink – mostly because she just couldn't stand looking at them any more. _Good._ _Now do what you came here for. _She grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen drawer.

It was even darker upstairs than it was downstairs, the ashen-yellow light throwing odd shadows onto the walls. Claire grabbed a suitcase from a closet and went into the room Chris shared with Jill, throwing it on the unmade bed. Finding his clothes was the hard part. Everything was either stacked haphazardly on a chair or wadded up at the bottom of the closet with more of the same packed into the dresser. _Poor Jill._ _He drives her absolutely insane_. Claire laughed suddenly, thinking of Chris wandering around like a lost dog looking for his jeans while Jill hollered something about him forgetting his dick if it wasn't attached. She shook her head fondly. _Everything's gonna be alright, _she told herself, her spirits lifting a little._ You'll find a way to work things out with Chris. You didn't trust Wesker in the beginning, either._

Comforted by the thought, Claire folded a couple of shirts and put them in the suitcase. Ten or fifteen minutes later she heard a noise that made her pause, cocking her head in an attempt to try and locate the source. It was the sound of an approaching car – going slow, wheels struggling a little to find purchase in the snow. _Who the hell would be all the way up here in a storm like this? Besides me, of course._ Had Wesker decided to come and babysit her after all? Feeling insulted, Claire went to the window and inched the curtain aside. At the end of the driveway, she could just make out an unmarked black Chrysler. Four men in long cassocks got out of the car, moving together in a stiff, eerie sort of harmony.

Claire suddenly felt uneasy. _What are these people doing up here? They can't be this hard up for followers._ The priests made their way up the driveway, three of them ascending the porch steps, one staying behind in the yard. A sudden gust of wind made the blood-red fabric of his cassock snap around his ankles. Claire could hear the chimes on the porch dancing eerily. His death-white face slowly rolled around, his gaze fixed on the upper window Claire was looking out of. She started slightly. The curtain twitched.

The priest raised his arm and pointed. "_Conseguirla!_"


	25. Chapter 25: So Falls the Night

***tries to decide whether to not to greedily hoard chapter* Decisions, decisions. LOL! Please enjoy, and don't forget to leave a review! ^_^**

**Song excerpt is from the Bleach: _Hell Verse_ OST, track name: _Incantation_.**

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><p><span><strong>Chapter 25: So Falls the Night<strong>

_"Harmony is not with us. Living hell is coming..."_

Slouched in a padded beige chair, Jill let her head fall forward into her hands and wished she could cry. She didn't know what to think any more, whether to be angry or relieved, or scared. The tips of her fingers vibrated against her skin, forcing her to clench them in her hair. She hated how they would always shake like that when she was really stressed. It was something she'd worked hard to conceal in STARS, trying to never show weakness. Her stomach hurt, too, but she didn't know if it was because of the battery-acid coffee she'd ingested earlier or the cocktail of emotion that'd been pumping through her system all day. She felt detached, an observer watching her own life unfold, and she couldn't believe what she was seeing. She thought of Wesker and a sick feeling rose in her chest. She hated him – at least, she was pretty sure she did – but her feelings refused to do anything but tangle into a nest of broken threads leading nowhere except utter confusion.

She felt like a traitor for even considering it, but despite what Chris had insinuated, she didn't think his illness had anything to do with Wesker. Not that this meant she trusted him. She was confused and upset, but not stupid. She would never trust the man again. _Then why did I let him take Chris down like that?_ Her stomach tightened uncomfortably. _And what about Claire? She obviously trusts him._ Jill had known the redhead had changed from the moment she'd set foot in the house. She'd attempted to hide it – and she hadn't done a bad job, either – but Jill had spent too many years on the police force to miss the signs. It was sad how much Raccoon City had changed them. Claire had always put up a brave face, but there were some days even a cheerful smile couldn't reach the haunted look in her eyes. Yesterday when she'd come home…

Jill shook her head. Maybe she was just imagining things, but she could have sworn there'd been a new life to Claire, her every movement filled with a tense feeling of excitement like a storm about to break. And that little slip, how she'd almost called him Albert instead of Wesker, her own admission that she'd willingly set foot in his labs, to say nothing of how she'd tried to defend Umbrella without actually _looking_ like she defending Umbrella. Something had happened to drastically change her opinion of the man, that much was obvious, but she'd kept skating around the topic, repeatedly catching herself at the last minute as if some awful secret was trying to force its way out of her. But why? She kept saying that she knew something about Wesker that they didn't, something she obviously thought would be enough to change everything. What had she been trying to say about Arklay?

The thought alone was enough to make Jill's palms break out in a cold sweat. Claire wasn't the type of person who gave in easily or quickly, but four months was a long time to be alone with somebody like Wesker. All of Jill's suspicions culminated in the accusations Chris had been yelling at the top of his lungs. She didn't know what the elder Redfield had seen, but she could guess. A queasy feeling rose in her stomach as she thought of Claire actually _with_ Wesker, and not just because she didn't think Wesker was capable of being in a relationship. _He's just using her. He has to be_, thought Jill, the cogs turning furiously. She wondered if Claire really had slept with the man, the queasiness in her stomach growing.

She allowed herself to consider the possibility that Wesker had seduced the younger woman in an attempt to gain something – after all, he'd deceived STARS for years and they'd been _trained_ to detect liars – but something about that didn't feel right even if Jill didn't know what that something was. There was more to the story. There had to be. She'd known Claire for a long time and she was having a hard time imagining sex being enough to sway her one way or the other. What exactly had Wesker made her believe? _It has to be something big._

Jill started violently as the elevator chimed and flew open. A doctor came out pushing a grey-faced woman in a wheelchair – a state trooper, judging by her uniform. She was feverishly itching her arm, fingers leaving long red welts as she was taken to Critical. The sight did nothing to lift Jill's mood. _What's wrong with Chris anyway?_ _Why are we even in this miserable place? _And more to the point, why was Wesker here? Claire's snappish reply hadn't been much of an answer, so Jill couldn't be sure if the younger woman was involved directly, but in the end she decided that it didn't matter.

With dreamlike clarity she knew that if it hadn't been for Wesker, Chris would be taking his final elevator ride down to the morgue. _Awfully strange considering he supposedly tried to have us killed a couple years ago, so why not just let Chris die? Better late than never, right?_ Jill's first instinct was that he'd done it to put Claire under his thumb, but then again why bother? Judging by the way she'd been acting, the "come to the Dark Side" argument was a moot point. Feeling trapped and on the verge of a full-blown anxiety attack, Jill got to her feet and walked the thirty or so feet back to Chris' room. She hadn't wanted to be in there after that last incident, but she hadn't dared leave Chris alone either, afraid of what Wesker might do. And speaking of Wesker…

He was standing further down the hall talking into his cellphone, casually sidestepping the oncoming wheelchair. His back was to her, the set of his broad shoulders conjuring all sorts of unwelcome memories. Jill grit her teeth. Since the day she'd meet him he'd always held his back straight, but somehow his pose still managed seem relaxed and unperturbed – in a dangerous, coiled sort of way. Jill felt a sudden strong urge to know who he was talking to. She cocked her head slightly, managing to pick up some of his low conversation.

"—want you to follow her. Don't reveal yourself unless it's absolutely necessary, do I make myself clear?"

Jill frowned. What the hell was he up to? Who did he need followed? Her urge to check up on Chris redoubling, Jill reached for the knob and started to turn it, but the door stuck fast. She jiggled the latch, swamped by a sudden feeling of dread, and quickly moved to peer between a gap in the sterile green drapes. Chris was lying on his back, the sheets pulled up around his chest. Beside the bed, his heart monitor continued to pulse strongly. _Then why…?_

"The door's locked, Miss Valentine."

Swallowing a scream, Jill spun around to face Wesker. For the second time in so many hours, she grew uncomfortably aware of the small _Taurus_ revolver concealed against her spine, pulled from her purse in the confusion immediately following Wesker's arrival. It didn't make her feel safer, though. In fact it only made things worse as she contemplated the horrible fact that she was so leery of her former captain and what he might do, she was prepared to pull a gun on him in the middle of the hallway.

"I can see that," Jill snapped, glad to hear that her voice was steady. "Would you mind telling me why?"

"He'll undoubtedly try to leave once he regains consciousness and I can't allow that," said Wesker. "I don't want to sedate him unless I absolutely have to, seeing as it's likely to do more harm than good at this point."

Jill let her hand fall from the knob. Wesker's tone was clinical, emotionless, but there was an edge to his words. He wasn't angry. No, it was something else. She narrowed her eyes at him. "Why are you doing this?" she asked bluntly.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do. Showing up here, screwing around with Claire: exactly what kind of game are you playing?"

"It has never been a game to me," said Wesker, the low timbre of his voice slicing through Jill better than any knife. "Chris is very ill and I'm here to make sure he recovers. And as for Claire, my relationship with her is none of your concern."

_So they are together!_ Jill balled her hands into fists – surprisingly not out of a desire to hit Wesker, but rather to stop them from shaking. "What does it matter to you if Chris is sick, anyway?" she demanded, trying desperately to read his expression even though she knew it was a hopeless endeavor.

"I have my reasons," said Wesker, sliding his phone back into his pocket. "That's enough."

"No, it isn't! How can you even stand there after what you did? You don't have the right to care anymore!"

Jill instantly realized her mistake. Accusing him of not having the right to care implied that he _did_ care, which was absurd. She watched as Wesker's mouth flattened into a thin, bloodless line. "You're right," he said coldly, "but that does not change the fact that I am here. I don't recall asking you to trust me."

Jill suddenly had no idea how to respond. She opened and closed her mouth several times, trying desperately to make sense of the situation. The ward suddenly seemed very busy, a flood of doctors and gurneys rushing past to Critical, but they were only shapes passing by in a fog. Memories of Arklay flashed through her mind, rising unbidden from the countless nightmares she'd been forced to suffer. She felt cold. Her head ached. She could picture the cruel glint in Wesker's eyes without even trying, but despite everything, the man standing before her now – all cool composure and frustratingly ambiguous answers – was the Wesker she remembered most clearly. How the hell could they belong to the same man? Wesker smiled ruefully, watching her eyes.

"Go get something to eat," he said.

"No," said Jill, surprised by how much conviction she felt. "I won't let you hurt Chris – or Claire!"

Wesker's smile became a smirk. "Admirable, Miss Valentine, but you clearly haven't thought things through. Why would I make a transatlantic flight to the States just to murder your partner in the middle of a public hospital – _after_ I went through so much trouble to save his life, no less. Your opinion of me is understandable, but your emotions are acting without the benefit of your intellect."

He was the very image of calm; no deadpan, no malice, just the sound of his voice seeping through her brain like some kind of infectious disease. It made sense. He'd gone through an awful lot of trouble just to turn around and wrap his hands around Chris' throat. _Just like he went through a lot of trouble to lead us to that Mansion and make sure we ran into all those ridiculous traps._ Jill's sweaty fists shook, but despite Wesker's threatening choice of words, she was certain he was just using them to mock her. And then there was how he'd stormed into the ward hollering something about Chris needing his permission to die. _Dammit, what am I supposed to think about THAT? _

"It wouldn't be the first time you went through a lot of trouble to stab us in the back," Jill blurted. Suddenly she felt desperate.

"No, it wouldn't," Wesker agreed, "but apart from standing guard at the door, what exactly do you plan to do? Call security on me?" He chuckled smugly. "It would be a commendable effort, but utterly futile."

"Want to bet? Even you won't risk making a scene in public!"

"Neither will you," said Wesker, his smile so thin now, it felt like a razor. "After all, you must have seen the threat Chris posed to himself, including the importance of him staying here, or you would have done something already. Isn't that right?"

Jill recoiled as if she'd been burned. It was true. She could have cried out, or even physically tried to stop Wesker, but instead she'd stood by and let him take Chris down, filled with a kind of grim approval of what he was doing. A terrible feeling of conflict rose within her as she stared at Wesker, crossing her arms in hope they would conceal her trembling. She was hiding a weapon, ready to shoot him if need be, but at the same time she was allowing the man to continue playing doctor to Chris. It was nothing if not hypocritical, but what else was she supposed to do? If Wesker had just shown up, slapped handcuffs on them and dragged them kicking and screaming into a waiting helicopter, Jill would have known what to do, but now…

"Dr. Wesker? Sorry, am I interrupting?"

Jill blanched and turned around to see a young man standing just down the hall. Adam, she thought his name was. He glanced worriedly at her, no doubt taking in her white face, her defensive posture. Swallowing, he held up a folder. "The, uh… the results from all the blood tests just came back. Carol said you wanted them?"

"I did, thank you," said Wesker, holding his hand out. Adam gave him the folder and stepped back, obviously not sure what to do next. He looked back at Jill. "You look terrible. Do you want to go get some coffee? I've got a couple minutes."

Jill shook her head. "No, thanks."

"I think it's a good idea," said Wesker firmly. "Go. Walk around; get some fresh air if you think it will clear your head, but whatever you do, I advise you to do it _before_ you suffer a nervous breakdown and I have two patients on my hands. You and I both know there's no point in you continuing to rationalize your presence here."

Jill opened her mouth to say something, but no words would come. _He's right, you know. He was always right about everything._ Defeated, her shoulders slumped. She felt bone tired, her body silently crying out in response to the promise of coffee. Yes, that would be the best thing right now. It was a dangerous thought, and maybe she was just kidding herself because it was easier than the alternative, but she couldn't shake the sudden feeling that whatever his motivation, Wesker was being sincere – at least for now.

"Maybe I'll have some of that coffee after all."

Adam nodded and turned to go, then stopped. "You want some too, Dr. Wesker?" he asked. There was a moment's pause, and Jill sighed as the weight of the man's gaze finally left her face.

"That would be wonderful," said Wesker.

Jill felt her stomach drop. Just like that, Wesker went from some untouchable, treacherous god to being almost unbearably human. She drew a shuddering breath as he turned away to peruse the contents of Adam's folder, burning holes in the paper with his signature expressionless stare. Only Jill could see the furrows in his brow, the strained lines framing his stern mouth. She knew that look – how could she forget? She'd seen it enough times. _What could he possibly be worried about? What the hell's going on?_

The realization made her distinctly uncomfortable, but with no legitimate excuses left, Jill had no choice but to turn and follow Adam down the hall. They got into the elevator without a word and Adam punched the number for the ground floor. There was an awkward pause. "So, I uh… I kind of forgot your name. Jean?"

"Jill," she corrected wearily, staring at a lonesome crack in the ceiling. She had to give it to him, having the balls to try and break the ice not once, but twice in the last five minutes. Jill brought her gaze down to study him, remembering that he'd brought Claire some crosswords earlier. He seemed like a nice enough kid. "Thanks, by the way."

Adam grinned. "No problem. You, uh… you kinda looked like you were at the end of your rope back there."

He looked like he wanted to add something else, but didn't. The elevator swished open and Jill followed him to the cafeteria conveniently situated just down the hall. An elderly couple was eating hamburgers near the counter, glancing sympathetically at the man sitting at an adjacent table wearing the dull, vacant expression of someone watching their life crumble. Jill could understand the feeling. She determinedly looked away, instead focusing on Adam as he ordered two cups of coffee and a large energy drink. Jill reached for her wallet, but it was waved aside.

"My treat," said Adam, carrying the coffee over to a little sideboard scattered with packets of sugar and creamer.

Jill frowned, embarrassed. "No, please. Let me get it. It's not like I'm helpless or anything."

"I said I got it," Adam repeated, red in the face but obviously determined to hold his ground. Jill put her money away, wondering why on earth Claire couldn't have fallen for some sweet, awkward little White Knight like him. Where the hell was she, anyway? She hadn't seen the younger Redfield for over an hour. Feeling irritated with Claire for bailing out on her, Jill picked up a coffee and opened several packets of sugar. Adam started to do the same, then paused, looking indecisive

"Guess I should've asked how he wanted it," he muttered.

Jill glanced at the coffee cup undoubtedly meant for Wesker. "Two packs of sugar," she said without thinking. "Otherwise he drinks it black." The words came to her easily, conjuring the countless thousands of times she'd been elected to serve as STARS coffee gofer – willingly or otherwise. _Chris: one sugar, heavy on the creamer. Glazed donut. Barry: one sugar, just enough creamer to give things some color. Jelly donut. Captain Wesker: two sugars. Black. Always a maple donut._ Jill swayed under the weight of the memory, hiding her eyes behind one hand.

Adam fiddled with the creamer. "I, uh… I take it you and Dr. Wesker have a history," he ventured cautiously.

_Dr. Wesker? It was always captain Wesker to us._ Jill flinched, her stomach cramping. That man was dead – murdered, lost, a Machiavellian persona cast aside to reveal Wesker's true intentions – but suddenly Jill wondered if that was entirely true. Wesker was here, after all, arriving just as they needed him the most. And it wasn't as if she hadn't noticed how every one of his carefully guarded comments seemed to allude to a personal stake in all this. She swallowed hard.

"You could say that," she admitted weakly.

"Were you two friends… or something? The big guy really seems to have a hard-on for him."

Sensing the unspoken question, Jill almost laughed. "We were in the police force together," she elaborated, unsure why she was telling Adam, but it felt good to get some of it off her chest. "He was our commanding officer. Wesker, I mean."

Adam nodded. She could almost see him forming a picture in his head. No doubt it included Wesker as the team medic, and Jill wasn't sure whether to laugh at the idea or cry. "I'm guessing that didn't pan out too well," Adam said, distractedly pouring sugar into Wesker's coffee. "Something bad happen?"

"Understatement of the century."

Adam gave her a sympathetic glance but didn't ask for details, for which Jill was grateful. She liked the kid more and more by the second. Swirling a liberal amount of half-and-half into her coffee, she raised the cup to her mouth and took a sip. It was _delicious_, much better than the sludge she'd coaxed out of the vending machine earlier. Apparently it paid to have a native guide. Adam stirred Wesker's coffee and replaced the lid.

"I, uh… I know it's none of my business," he began awkwardly, "and I know Dr. Wesker's the chairman of Umbrella and all, so believe me when I say I'm not just blowing his horn, but I was there when he came rushing into the ward, you know? He really seems to care about the big guy. Claire, too. They, uh… they seem close. She was really starting to loose it before."

He shrugged and blushed, hastily dropping the subject. Jill felt a surge of heat that had nothing to do with the coffee. It didn't take a degree in brain surgery to guess why Chris had freaked out, but even as this thought occurred to her, Jill felt a troubling flash of annoyance for him making a bad situation worse. He obviously hadn't taken into account the fact that his sister had been upset, meaning that Wesker's so-called affections were probably more to do with comfort than lust. After all, he could easily employ one set of ethics while working for Umbrella and an entirely different set with Claire – especially if he actually cared about her. It was unlikely, but not impossible. Her belly gurgling with stress, Jill took a long gulp of coffee, hoping that the pressure forming in her temples wasn't the beginning of a headache. Maybe what she really needed was some codeine from the outpatient pharmacy.

As she was considering this, a mother and two boys came into the cafeteria. The youngest of the pair had his arm in a cast, a plush turtle tucked securely under the other. His eyes were red and glassy, but he smiled as he pointed at the menu behind the counter, saying something about ice cream. Jill stepped out of the doorway to give them room. Standing in the hall, she glanced over the gift shop to a small chapel beside the cafeteria. A dazed young man stood at the door, repeating the same words over and over in a horse monotone. _"Morir es vivir… morir es vivir…"_

He entered the chapel swaying as if in a trance. Jill couldn't help but feel bad for him, hoping he'd find some kind of comfort in his faith. She wished she could. With a sigh, she let her eyes travel further down the hall to what looked like a small outdoor courtyard where several brave souls were trying to sneak a cigarette. Jill yawned and blearily scrubbed her face with one hand. _A couple of minutes out in the cold will probably do me good_, she thought, annoyed to realize that she was on the verge of following Wesker's advice not once, but twice. _Dammit._

She took another gulp of coffee as Adam joined her in the hallway. "You going to be alright now?" he asked.

"Huh? Yeah, I'll be fine. I was just thinking of getting some air…" Jill glared hatefully at the cool, frosty snowflakes whipping around in the breeze, mentally calling Wesker every nasty and spiteful name she could think of – the nicest of which simultaneously insulted his parentage and implied that a giant mutant cock grew out of his shoulders instead of a head. Adam didn't seem to notice the vicious half-grimace, half-smirk suddenly twisting her mouth.

"Then how about we do this again? Next time I'll grab some flowers and a cheeseburger, and we'll do thing whole date thing right." Adam grinned sheepishly and Jill laughed, suddenly reminded of Chris. She gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Sounds good to me," she said. "Only this time, I'm buy_—_"

A scream sliced the air. Jill whirled in the direction of the sound, she and Adam exchanging a startled glance. The silence that followed was deafening, mere seconds elongating into forever. More screams suddenly filled the lobby, badly distorted by distance but still all too clear. Jill was already racing down the corridor, old habits unconsciously kicking into gear. The sign for the Emergency Department flashed by as she crashed through the double doors, leading with her shoulder. The ED was a madhouse. Papers floated in the air in a multicolored flurry, people panicking and scrambling in all directions. Someone discharged a gun into the ceiling, shattering a light fixture. With a gasp Jill flattened herself against the jamb as a large crowd violently jostled past her. The screams weren't just in terror now. Many of them were in pain.

Jill frantically pushed her way to the front. The throng parted like a living Red Sea.

A police officer was struggling with woman in a red parka, flailing and trying to shove her aside, but she clung to his arm – snarling and grunting. Another bullet pierced the linoleum floor. Jill first thought was drugs, alcohol maybe, but then she saw the officer's bloody sleeve, the woman's teeth sunk deep in the tendons of his wrist. Jill took a step back, her coffee slipping from nerveless fingers to spatter on the floor. She knew she should run, but it was a distance thought unable to connect with her limbs. _This… this isn't happening. It's not!_ _It can't be!_

Shoving his hand into the woman's face, the cop frantically tried again to pry her off, stumbling backwards into a gurney left against the admitting counter. The patient lying on it twitched then slowly sat up with a deep, gurgling moan no longer able to be mistaken for human. He lurched forward and bit into the side of the officer's exposed throat, blood spurting all over his face in an ugly crimson plume. The officer screamed and crashed to the ground with his two assailants atop him, biting and chewing, ripping out great chunks of flesh. Jill's breath left her in a desperate little moan.

"No, not this… not again…"


	26. Chapter 26: the Perfect Storm

**A/N: Hello, everybody! I know it's been a long while, so here's hoping the latest chapter didn't disappoint. I've got another chapter about ¾ complete and I'll do my best to have it up by next Sunday. Classic survival-horror is on the menu from here on out. Heh, heh. RE: Damnation has feed my muse. Also, I have some new illustrations that I'll post soon as well. **

**A great big THANK YOU to ****everyone**** who has taken the time to leave me such wonderful reviews over this past year. As always, your support is loved and truly appreciated! No, seriously. You guys mean the world. Knowing that so many of you enjoy this story is what keeps me coming back, even if it takes forever. Thank You for waiting so patiently! ^_^**

Chapter 26: The Perfect Storm

Jill took a trembling step back, freezing instantly as broken glass crunched underfoot. The zombie raised her bloodstained face from the dead officer's throat. Her head tilted stupidly, trying to pinpoint the noise. Bits of tissue were caught between her teeth, pale eyes swimming in a film of blood. Jill's heart seized. Instantly, the nightmares rose up to engulf her: dark, moldy corridors… the raucous laughter of crows… car alarms wailing in the fiery wreck of downtown Raccoon City.

Limbs unfolding, the dead woman lurched to her feet.

Jill shrank against the wall. She was breathing too fast; she knew she was hyperventilating. Adrenalin buzzed in her brain, screaming a wordless command to flee. The zombie shambled closer. It was going to kill her, too. She had seconds at the most. _We have to get back to the foyer and warn Captain Wesker. _

_No, wait… that can't be right. _

_This isn't Arklay. _

The world snapped like an overextended rubber band, reality screaming back into focus as rational thought finally connected with frozen muscles. Jill's hand plunged beneath her sweater, closed on warm metal. In one motion she wrenched the revolver out of her waistband, thumbed the safety, and fired. A wet red flower blossomed on the woman's forehead. She staggered as if struck, her arms flying out to either side as she toppled to the floor. The second zombie looked up just in time to catch a second bullet that popped his head backwards.

Jill counted several seconds before she drew a breath, sweeping the area for any sign of movement. The light fixtures guttered unsteadily on the ceiling, filling the air with a low buzz. Confused by the proximity of the overturned gurneys, the automatic doors slid open, then shut, then open again as if wracked by silent laughter. Jill suddenly realized that the sirens she was hearing weren't inside her head after all. The abrupt squeal of tires jerked her attention outside just in time to see another ambulance careen into the parking lot, mount the curb, and crash violently into a streetlight. A dark shape exploded through the windshield and skidded away through the snow. Too startled to do anything, Jill could only stare.

The silence that followed was almost deafening, the ambulance siren dying to a strained warble before cutting out completely. Smoke curled from the ruined engine, the shattered headlights peering into the hospital like black eyes. Something thumped inside the back of the vehicle, pounding out a slow, demented rhythm. Jill forced her clenched hands to loosen, years of near-forgotten training reminding her how tense muscles could ruin an otherwise perfect shot. _Steady… steady…_ Suddenly the ambulance doors burst open with enough force to make her jump. Two bodies spilled out onto the snow, EMT uniforms soaked in blood. Soft, hungry moans rose above the wailing snow.

Jill had seen enough.

Heart pounding, she took a step back, then another, and another, until she was racing back the way she'd came. Pale, shaken faces peered out at her from adjacent hallways and she shouted at them to stay put. Her calves were burning by the time she reached the elevator, but she barely noticed over the overwhelming pit forming in her gut. Wesker. He'd done this! But why? What right did he have to _screw_ with them like this? Jill's hands rose to clutch at her hair, trembling so violently the chamber of the revolver banged against her forehead. She thought of Wesker sitting in a security office somewhere with that terrible smirk on his lips.

She should have known better than to let the man separate them again. She _did_ know better! Jill's stomach lurched with the thought of finding Chris with a bullet lodged in his skull, or lying unconscious as the undead threw their bodies against his flimsy hospital door…

"Come on, damn you!" she screamed at the elevator.

The doors burst open with a _ding_ and she was greeted by utter madness. People were running towards the elevators, pushing and trampling each other in their attempts to escape. Jill frantically elbowed her way through the crowd, yelling at the top of her lungs that the lobby wasn't safe, but no one heard. In the midst of all the panic someone popped her eye with an elbow, sending an explosion of stars dancing through her vision, and she gave up being chivalrous. She flattened herself to the side of the corridor where the traffic was thinner and angrily shoved her way through. How could there already be a panic on the third floor?

She reached Chris' room, crashing into an overturned wheelchair left abandoned in the middle of the corridor. With a frustrated cry she wrenched it aside and grabbed the knob. _Still locked!_ Jill raised the butt of her revolver with the idea of smashing through the window, only to stop as gunshots suddenly ricocheted down the hall. People around her screamed and uselessly flung their arms up to protect their heads.

Startled, Jill moved to see around the corner. The door to Critical Care had formed a bottleneck as people hysterically tried to push their way through, the frantic press of bodies getting stuck against the jamb. There was another shot and the panic intensified, culminating with several people getting knocked to the floor and trampled. A security guard was frozen in place by the door, eyes wide and dark skin gone mushroom pale. Jill's skin prickled. _No. No, no! They can't be up here, too! _

She elbowed her way through the mob in a desperate bid to see what was going on. She didn't know what exactly tipped her off to the identity of the figure in the middle of the hall, but there was something in his stance, the tightness of his arms and shoulders, that told Jill exactly who he was. She stopped short, confused. Wesker was standing with his back to the door, legs apart as the tide of people broke around him. And he was holding a gun. Further down the hall, Jill counted three – no, four targets in hospital gowns, severed IV lines dragged from their arms. They hadn't been dead long. One of them was still dressed in the charred remnants of a police uniform, strips of gauze swinging from numerous burns.

Wesker fired into the mob, two rounds smacking wetly into the head of the closet zombie, the third going slightly wide. Several arms burst out of a nearby observation window, clawing and swinging for him, but Wesker sidestepped out of their reach. To either side of the hall, frightened patients were leaning up in their beds, too sick and injured to move or help the brave few nurses struggling to free them.

_I- I have to help, _thought Jill._ He can't hold them off forever! _

There was a yelp as a teenage boy tripped and hit the floor inches away from Wesker's feet, his smartphone hydroplaning across the tile. Snarling, the blond tyrant stooped and wrenched him up by the collar, throwing him in the direction of the door. A woman loomed behind Wesker's shoulder, her mouth crusted with blood. Jill made her decision without thinking.

"Wesker, on your six!"

Her cry had the desired effect. Wesker turned sharply, the heel of his palm colliding with the zombie's chest with a sickening _crack_. The result was tremendous. The nurse flew back at least twenty feet, bloody foam spraying from her mouth as she skidded along the linoleum. Jill's mouth fell open. _What the hell? That couldn't have_–_ nobody's that strong! _

"Valentine, get these people clear _now_!" Wesker shouted.

In spite of everything, Jill was in motion even before the words had completely left his mouth, abandoning her doubt for pure muscle-memory. She seized the frozen security guard and shook him hard. "You! Get in there and help!"

The man gave her a startled look, but Jill didn't wait to see if he understood as she barreled past into the ward. She didn't bother with unhooking IV lines or heart monitors – if she didn't hurry, those things wouldn't matter anyway. In one motion she wheeled a frightened old man out of the ward, bed and all, before turning and firing past Wesker's shoulder. She caught a flurry of movement out of the corner of her eye: the security guard running past with a boy in his arms. After that everything became a blur.

"Valentine?" Wesker's gravely shout conveyed everything in an instant.

"Right side, clear!" Jill hollered, but there were still more rooms further down the hall. She moved ahead without thinking, only to come up short as Wesker threw his arm out, blocking her path. A split-second later she understood why. _Dammit, where are they coming from?! _

She couldn't believe the number of zombies that'd amassed at the end of the ward in just the few moments she'd been distracted. There must have been a dozen or more, all of them lurching down the hall in pursuit of warm bodies. "Fall back!" Wesker shouted, firing off another round.

"But_—_"

"I said fall back!"

This time Jill obeyed. What choice did she have? There were just too damn many. She took a step back, firing at the approaching horde. The first shot completely blew off the zombie's left ear, the second punching a gaping hole just above its eye. Arms flailing like a dead bird, it immediately collapsed to the floor. Jill felt something hard collide with her hip. The door! She and Wesker slipped through and immediately took up positions on either side of the jamb. They locked eyes, and Jill instantly realized what she was supposed to do.

The door was made of heavy safety glass, welded to a steel track in the floor. With only seconds to spare, Jill seized the panel and heaved it shut just as the zombies collided with the other side, their faces mere inches from hers. She backpedaled just as Wesker punched the keypad, sealing the door with a solid, pressurized _thunk. _A moment passed, then another. The door held.

"Yo man, help me!"

The security guard got behind a nearby couch and shoved it in front of the door while several bystanders grabbed chairs. Letting out a shaky breath, Jill stumbled back out of their way, her heartbeat struggling to return to some semblance of normality. She glanced around. There were far more people in the waiting room then she'd expected – mostly hospital staff and terrified patients peering out of their rooms all the way down the hall. Someone whimpered loudly. Jill felt like doing the same. _I don't get it. Where'd the virus come from? How could it have spread so quickly? This hospital isn't a research lab… is it?_

The thought was a terrible one. It wouldn't be the first time Umbrella had hid their dirty operations under the skirts of an unsuspecting public. _Is Wesker behind this? He has to be. What are the chances of him just being here when this happens?_ Jill gave the man a look, wondering if his actions a minute ago were just part of another act. Again, it wouldn't be the first time. Jill thought about Chris and her stomach heaved, flopping against her spine. What was she supposed to do? What _could_ she do? Her thoughts whirled drunkenly, and then it hit her – like a blow deep in the center of her belly. _Claire!_

"Wesker!" Jill seized hold of the man's jacket, but even she wasn't sure whether it was to shake him until his teeth rattled or to cling to something, _anything_, that resembled stable ground. "Claire, I– we– we have to find Claire!"

"No, we don't," said Wesker calmly.

Jill's heart faltered as a dozen unthinkable scenarios flashed though her head. "But–"

Wesker reached up and pried her hand from his jacket. His grip was unyielding and abnormally hot, his leather glove sticking to the sweaty skin of her wrist. "Claire is safe," he said quietly. "She left the premises hours ago."

His words cut through the membrane smothering Jill's brain. Her knees suddenly felt like water, and she groped behind her for the admitting counter. Was Wesker telling the truth? What did it mean if he was? He could just as easily sent Claire away, acting on some demented form of love even as he concluded the game he'd never gotten to finish – all while making it look like some terrible accident. Hysterical laughter bubbled in the back of Jill's throat. _Oh, God, we're even in the hospital, too. What kind of trashy soap would this be without a trip to the hospital! _

A tremor ran through Jill's limbs. The revolver in her hand felt like lead. She could shoot Wesker now and everything would be over in an instant. It would be so easy, too. She met Wesker's gaze, trying to understand, but all she could see was the darkness of his sunglasses and her own pale reflection staring back at her with haunted eyes. Down the hall, a teenage girl suddenly began to cry.

"Wh-what's going on! Someone, _please_ tell me!"

And as though some spell had been broken, Wesker turned away.

"Everyone stay calm," he said, his manner suddenly brisk and business-like. Jill's eyes flashed to the gun he tucked under his jacket, certain that she recognized it, but of course that was impossible. After all these years, after everything he'd done… Jill shivered and lowered the hammer on her revolver, too shaken to do anything else. There had been a moment, perhaps, when she might have carried through with her impulse to shoot him, but just like that it was gone. Somebody was screaming at Wesker, begging him to save the people still trapped in Critical Care. A man grabbed the chairs piled in front of the door and tried to tear them down. The security guard immediately jumped forward to intervene.

"Chill out, man! We can't help dem people now! You wanna get everybody killed?"

Jill squeezed her eyes shut. It was just like Raccoon City all over again. Distantly she was aware of Wesker speaking, but she didn't register his words – only the inhumanly calm tone of his voice. _Mr. Professional_, thought Jill, trying to force down a bitter laugh. She opened her eyes again just in time to see Wesker take a Low-band handheld from the security guard. "Duty Officer, Albert Wesker," he radioed.

The radio keyed up almost instantly. _**"This is hospital duty officer. Go ahead."**_

"On my authority I am initiating a total lockdown of the premises, clearance number 1150," said Wesker.

There was a long pause. _**"Incident Commander, repeat your last. Over."**_

"Duty Officer, copy: I am ordering a Code 4 lockdown and mobilization of all security personnel," said Wesker calmly, but Jill could tell his patience was treading on thin ice. "We have experienced a Level 5 T-viral outbreak in the Critical Care ward."

"And downstairs," said Jill suddenly. "I shot two in the lobby, and there was at least another three outside. There's no telling how many could be infected by now."

Wesker's eyes blazed, both figuratively and literally. Jill frowned, confused by the hellish red light that seemed to flicker across Wesker's face. She looked around for the source. Maybe an emergency strobe? Wesker brought the radio back to his mouth. "Correction to last: the first floor is affected as well," he growled. "Can you confirm? Over."

"_**Negative."**_The voice on the radio was calm _– _but just barely. _**"I am en route to the security office and will page the lockdown order as soon as situation is confirmed." **_

"Do it quickly," Wesker snapped, lowering the radio. The undead continued to bang on the door, groaning and snarling. Wesker spared them a glance that almost bordered on casual. "Is there a surveillance office on this floor?" he demanded.

"Ya, man. At de end of the hall," said the security officer, his thick Jamaican accent worsened by stress. Jill looked him over. He was tall and athletic, his short hair braided into cornrows. A piercing glinted in his ear. Probably a local hire, she surmised. He had none of the cold-blooded edge she'd come to associate with Umbrella mercs.

"And besides you, how many people are armed?" Wesker pressed.

No one came forward.

"I am," Jill reminded him before she could stop herself. A cocktail of fear, adrenaline, and shame immediately rose up inside her, acid collecting in the back of her throat like fire. Was she really going to keep playing along with him like this after everything he'd done? When he was probably responsible for tonight? She bit her lip as Wesker gave her a hard look, judging her capacity for further engagement. _Well I'll be damned if I just sit here with my thumb up my ass._ Jill stubbornly pushed away from the counter and could have sworn she saw the man smirk.

"You," Wesker pointed at the security guard without missing a beat, "go to the surveillance office and get in contact with local dispatch – tell them exactly what's going on and request an immediate SWAT dispatch. No one is to leave the third floor until I say otherwise. Is that clear?"

"But my girlfriend works in the cafeteria!" an orderly cried, his crop of pimples standing out like the plague. "If I could just run down and get her, we could—"

"I said no one is to leave this floor," Wesker repeated coldly. "At least one of the lower levels has been compromised and right now everyone's best chance for survival is to remain here."

"You can't keep us here!" the orderly hollered.

Wesker turned a frightening glare in the young man's direction and the orderly quailed, any further arguments dying in his throat. Jill raked her hair back with one hand and took a deep breath. Everything felt surreal, like a bad horror movie stuck on loop, and she jumped as the PA system suddenly crackled to life and paged a series of tones. _**"Attention! A Code 4 lockdown is now in effect. I repeat: this is a Code 4 lockdown of building premises. This is not a drill. Perimeter doors are now sealed. All hospital personnel report to your designated departments and await further instructions."**_

There was a muted _beep_ as several electronic keypads, mostly those leading in and out of Critical Care, switched from green to red and began to flash. Jill glanced back to where the undead continued to bang on the door, moaning and snarling. A shiver went down her spine. She wondered how long the glass would hold, unable to shake the feeling that they were sealing themselves in with the very thing they couldn't afford to be anywhere near.

* * *

><p>Chris was dreaming about gunfire. The darkness elongated, the world smearing in murky smudges of light and color… and suddenly he was awake, breathing hard and staring at the ceiling. Where the hell was he? He listened to the annoying beep of a heart monitor for several minutes before actually realizing what it was. Oh, right. The hospital. Slowly, Chris turned his head to look at the IV drip going into his arm. His chest hurt; it felt like a large dog was sitting on his ribs.<p>

With a groan he lifted one hand to scrub at his neck, wondering if there were bruises. He couldn't figure out how Wesker had gotten the drop on him so easily. The man had always been a capable fighter, but what good were all those hours he'd spent pumping iron do if he couldn't even get the son-of-a-bitch to _move_? Chris felt the fury rise in his chest like hot, broken glass. Or maybe that was just the cocktail of god-only-knew what they were pumping into his veins.

_I am going to kill him. _

Chris swung his legs around and placed them on the floor. The world spun for minute, then slowly righted itself. He sat there for a minute, concentrating on the tile under his feet. _What the hell did that bastard do to me?_ He thought about the seizures, reliving the feeling of trying to hack up a lung, and imagined he could still taste the blood in his mouth. Was he the Petri dish for Wesker's newest virus? He grit his teeth as he thought about Claire, how he'd woken from his last ordeal to find her wrapped in that bastard's arms_. God dammit, Claire! How could you be so stupid? _

He refused to think that his sister had done this to him deliberately. Wesker had obviously twisted her, but she just wasn't that kind of person, no matter what happened. Renewing his vow to kill the man as soon as he laid eyes on him, Chris tore the IV line from his arm and stood up, wiping a few drops of blood on his pants. Now that he was more alert, he could hear a lot of commotion out in the hall. People were yelling and sobbing, barely audible over the frantic clatter of gurneys. _What's going on? Has there been an accident?_

The doorknob suddenly rattled as someone jammed a key into the lock. A minute later the portal flew open to admit a small team of docs pushing a bed. The old man had his eyes pinched shut_, _sobbing the rosary under his breath as they wheeled him into the corner and began hooking up equipment. Beyond in the hallway, more people ran past pushing more gurneys and people in wheelchairs. What struck Chris the most, however, was that all of them looked absolutely _terrified_.

"Sir, get back it bed. Sir!"

One of the docs reached for Chris, but he brushed the man off. He stepped out into the hallway, overwhelmed by the need to see what was going on. He thought of all the things that could whip a hospital into a frenzy: a twenty-car pileup, explosion, terrorists. None of them seemed quite right, though. These people were trained to deal with trauma, but most were totally freaking out. Chris jumped to the side as a nurse raced past with a little kid in her arms. The hallway was completely clogged with bodies and equipment. Somewhere overhead, the PA system let out a noise that was more siren than anything else.

"_**Attention! A Code 4 lockdown is now in effect. I repeat: this is a Code 4 lockdown of building premises. This is not a drill. Perimeter doors are now sealed. All hospital personnel report to your designated departments and await further instructions."**_

Suddenly terrorists didn't seem so far-fetched. Chris' first thought was of Claire, and then Jill. Had Wesker locked them in separate rooms? Dread gnawed at his gut, his imagination conjuring up all sort of bad situations. He continued to walk against the flow of bodies, slower at first, and then a little faster. _Is there a fire? I don't smell any smoke…_

Chris tried to call out the staff, but his only response came in the form of a frazzled nurse trying to herd him back, telling him it wasn't safe. He dodged around her. He was running now, feet slapping the linoleum as he turned the corner at the waiting room outside Critical Care – and stopped cold.

The doors to Critical Care were locked, a makeshift barricade piled in front of it, but the writhing mass of bodies on the other side came straight from his personal hell. The people – _no, zombies, call them what they are_ – were burned and bloody, their flesh sticking to the glass as they beat their fists on the door. Chris knew what he was seeing, but he still couldn't believe it. There were no words to describe the overwhelming horror he felt as one of the nurses turned her – _its_ face towards him, deathly pale except for the blood smeared on its mouth and hair, hot pink nails scraping the glass. _Oh, God!_

Chris' stomach heaved. He lurched to the side, putting his shoulder on the wall for support. Cold trickles of sweat rolled down his back, gluing his t-shirt to his skin and leaving him shivering in the air-conditioned hall. He swallowed hard, closed his eyes, and counted quickly to ten. _I'm still asleep. I have to be. Those things can't be here… why would they be here? Shitshitshit._

Somewhere in all the commotion, he picked up on a man's voice – a voice he knew. Chris' head snapped up, his eyes scanning the crowd. His gaze slid over to a head of perfectly groomed blond hair and suddenly this insane nightmare made perfect sense. He couldn't believe it'd taken him this long to figure it out. The doors to Critical Care juddered dangerously.

"Everyone fall back," Wesker ordered suddenly. He pulled a cellphone out of his jacket pocket and looked at it, his lip curling in a frustrated snarl. "I'm going to the roof. The rest of you," he glanced at Jill and a sweaty-looking security officer in particular, "keep the civilians in line. Now move!"

Jill nodded obediently, fingering her revolver. Chris felt his teeth clench in rage. Claire was one thing. She didn't know Wesker like they did. She hadn't been there that night at Arklay. In the end it wasn't hard to imagine that Wesker had fooled her into worshipping him – just like he'd fooled STARS once. But Jill? _Little Miss Perfect,_ thought Chris, seething. _She can see those things on the other side of the door, and she's still kissing his ass?! _

Striding away, Wesker shouldered the emergency door and disappeared into the stairwell. Chris' blood boiled at the sight of his retreating back. It was just like before. They'd left the foyer of the Spencer Estate for only a couple minutes, but it was enough time for Wesker to disappear. They'd been so sure he'd run into those _things_. Jill had tried to be rational, saying that they would've heard the shots, but he hadn't been convinced. Wesker could have been ambushed, dragged away. But he hadn't. He'd only wanted to separate them, to get out of their immediate line of sight…

_You go check it out. I'll… secure the area._

The door to the stairwell fell shut with a heavy _thunk_, and it became the final straw. With an incomprehensible snarl, Chris flew across the waiting room in two strides and wrenched the revolver from Jill's hand before she had a chance to react. Weapon in hand he hurtled across the hall, banging though the stairwell door with his shoulder. He dimly heard Jill shout after him, but he ignored her. The stairwell was dimly lit and absolutely _freezing_, all rough concrete and flaking red paint. A flight about him, Wesker had just reached the second landing. Chris was instantly at his heels, taking the stairs two at a time.

"WESKER!"

As the man turned, Chris vaulted the last distance between them and cuffed Wesker across the jaw with enough force to snap his head to the side. Without giving him time to counter, Chris slammed the taller man against the nearby wall and wedged the revolver under his chin, index finger twitching at the trigger.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't blow your goddamn brains out," Chris snarled. He jerked the hammer back with his thumb, the crisp snap of it echoing loudly in the stairwell. He fully expected Wesker to retaliate and every muscle in his body tensed, begging for any excuse to pull the trigger. For his part, however, Wesker merely glared at him, blood slowly welling out of his split lip.

"Stand down, Redfield," he said coolly.

"_Stand down?" _Chris echoed. "You've got a lot of fucking balls, you know that? Just what the hell do you think you're doing? This place – those fucking things runnin' around! Feel like taking a little stroll down memory lane, you sick, sadistic bastard!"

A nerve twitched on Wesker's forehead. "If you're referring to the incident downstairs, I had nothing to do with it," he said, stone-faced expression unwavering. "I assure you, however, it won't be long before I get to the bottom of things."

Chris couldn't believe the man's nerve. Spitting an unintelligible curse, he pushed the gun deeper into the underside of Wesker's chin, forcing his head back. "Bullshit," he snarled. "If it's me you want, why not just kill me? Why drag all these people into it?" His voice trembled with barely contained rage. He knew he was rambling, but he didn't care. "Why do you have to make it into a game?! Don't you have enough fucking _combat data_?"

Wesker stiffened considerably at the accusation, but if Chris noticed, it was only as a prelude to an attack. He shoved his arm into Wesker's throat. "Where's my sister, you evil son-of-a-bitch? Tell me where you've got her locked up right now, before I blow a hole in your skull!"

"Safe," said Wesker.

Chris let out a snarl. "WHERE?!" he roared.

Wesker glared at him. A thin rivulet of blood had followed the curvature of his jaw and threatened to drip from his chin. "She left over two hours ago, right after your charming little outburst. I believe she said something about "packing a suitcase" for you." His lip curled, his opinion on the matter clear.

Chris stared at him, his heart pounding in time with his whirling thoughts. It never crossed his mind that Wesker was lying. Of course he'd want to keep Claire nice and obedient, and killing a half a dozen people in a viral outbreak would be extremely counterproductive to that goal. "So you got her out of the way so you could turn this place into a hellhole," said Chris slowly, seething. "What the plan this time, Wesker? Disappear, lay some ammo around, huh? _Huh?"_

He thumped the man against the wall. Sweat was dripping into his eyes, blurring his vision. Or maybe it was furious tears. Wesker was tight-lipped and pale as a corpse, a nerve twitching violently in his temple, and a small part of Chris wondered why the man hadn't tried to fight back yet.

"Are you done?" Wesker said it almost amicably, but his voice vibrated on a perilously low octave. Alarm bells began to peal in the deepest recesses of Chris' brain. _Back off, _they told him. _For the love of God, back off before he throws you out the office window. _Chris angrily shoved the warning aside. This wasn't the STARS office, and he would be damned if he ever let himself be cowed in front of this man _ever_ again.

His finger tightened. The cylinder on the revolver began to turn.

The Taurus discharged with a thunderous crash. For a moment the world seemed to slow on its axis, and Chris found himself processing information in fragments – like a broken modem. He stared at Wesker, waiting for the man to slump dead to the ground. Why did his wrist hurt all of sudden? An eternity seemed to pass and still, nothing. Chris took his gaze from Wesker's face, his eyes tracking a few inches to the right.

Wesker's hand was locked around his wrist like a vice, forcing the revolver to point harmlessly at the ceiling, but it took a minute for this information to fully sink in. Chris' eyes widened, seized by a sudden and inexplicable panic. _No fucking way!_

Wesker's bloody lips peeled back into an expression that was more snarl than smirk, his sunglasses reflecting a sudden bloom of fiery red light. "Nice try, Chris," he growled, bending the larger man's arm at a dangerous angle – mere pressure pounds from snapping at the elbow. Chris let out a pained yelp and buckled, exposing himself to a hard strike from Wesker's knee. He dropped to all fours as the air exploded out of him, his organs going into spasm.

"Now, be a good boy and stay," said Wesker, wiping the blood from his mouth. He turned away up the stairs. Chris struggled to his knees with a gasp, the revolver in his hand scraping on the frigid concrete. "Y-you– don't you walk away from me, you bastard!"

"Chris, no!"

Chris didn't know when Jill hadn't gotten there, but either way her cry came too late. He pointed the revolver at Wesker's back and fired, the forlorn _click_ of the empty cylinder echoing in the stairwell. _No! _Chris pulled the trigger again, and again to the same result. Halfway up the stairs Wesker paused, his head cocked ever so slightly. He smirked, then continued on without turning.

Chris had no idea he could hate anyone so much. He felt dizzy with the anger coursing through his veins. He didn't need a gun – he was going to twist Wesker's head with his bare hands. He lurched forward, but couldn't connect to the muscles in his legs, splinters of pain stabbing outward from his bruised diaphragm. Chris drew a spasmodic breath, feeling as though he was drowning. This was it. He couldn't move, and before he knew it Wesker was gone. A door banged shut somewhere overhead.

In disbelief Chris let his arm fall, the revolver clattering uselessly to the cement. Kneeling in the freezing stairwell with the cold seeping into his bones, he felt furious, useless and betrayed, lost in a nightmare that he couldn't seem to wake up from. He heard swift footsteps on the stairs, and he turned his head to glare murderously at Jill. The woman stopped, pinned by the sheer ferocity in his gaze. On some level he could fathom everything else that'd happened except for _her_. When Claire had gotten sick, it'd been Jill that had given her over to Wesker. There was zombies banging on the door downstairs, but it was Jill screaming at him not to shoot the man responsible for it. Always, it was Jill. It was like the punchline to a cruel joke.

Jill opened her mouth to say something but then changed her mind, her throat working to swallow. Slowly she crouched to pick up her revolver and then walked back down the stairs without a word. Left alone in the chilly gloom, Chris slumped against the wall. Just a few minutes and he could get up. Just a few meager minutes and then…

He clenched his fists, knuckles whitening, and promised himself that Wesker would pay.

* * *

><p>Wesker stepped out onto the rooftop, shoving the door open so hard it banged off the wall. The snow was piled nearly to his ankles and more was coming down by the minute. Taking his phone out of his pocket, Wesker stabbed at the keys and held it to his ear, seething. The thought of Chris made his blood burn, but he forced the incident aside. <em>Answer the phone, you ignorant cretin. <em>There was a click as the line connected to the sound of an obnoxious yawn.

"D- do you have any idea what time it is, Al? I know it's still early for you, but–"

"Shut up and listen, Birkin," Wesker snarled. "There's been an outbreak. I need you to find out what the HELL is going on!"

"Wait… what? Are you sure? _Jesus Christ…_" There was a crash on the other end of the line – most likely Birkin knocking over the lamp, followed by a string of creative swearing. "Where are you?"

"Harvardville Memorial–"

"What are you doing at a hospital?"

"Never mind! At least a dozen people have been infected so far. I've ordered a complete lockdown, but the situation is only going to escalate." Moving to the edge of the roof, Wesker peered over the side into the parking lot. It was deserted except for a single figure shuffling around close to the marquee. Even from a distance its slow, mindless gait was unmistakable. And where there was one…

"How long before a containment unit can be deployed?" Wesker demanded.

"There's a team in Denver, so two – maybe three hours, but _Jesus_, Al! You're in the middle of ski country, for Christ's sake! How did the virus even get out there?"

_I don't know,_ thought Wesker, grinding his teeth. His vision burned at the edges, the world around him sharpening with almost painful clarity. He fought to control himself and _think_. There should have been no possibility of an outbreak this far from Mont St. Michel, which meant only one thing: someone had released the virus deliberately. But who? And how had the infection spread so quickly? On average it took ten to twelve hours for the virus to necrotize enough brain tissue to be fatal. Over a dozen cases couldn't have manifested symptoms at the same time, especially not without several hours' prior warning. The only way such a thing would have been possible… _is if the subjects had already been dead or dying when infection occurred,_ Wesker realized. _Upon expiration, it only takes a few minutes for the virus to reanimate the body. _

He took a deep breath, his highly analytic mind running over the possible scenarios. _Most of them came from Critical Care, which means… _A cold chill stole through Wesker's body. _The infection didn't start in the hospital. _

He looked up over the city. The sky was rapidly turning from slate to a dark, muddy purple as the winter sun dipped behind the mountains. The blowing snow made it hard to see, but Wesker's eyes were sharper than most. Plumes of black smoke rose in the distance, their foundations streaked by the telltale glow of fire. Wesker thought of the infected creatures downstairs and cursed. Many of them had been badly burned.

"…Albert, you still there? I'm putting a call into Denver right now. Our main division is gonna be right behind them, but it's going to take all night before they even reach the States. Albert?"

"I heard," Wesker snapped. "Patch me in with Red Queen."

He needed to talk to Krauser and start sorting things out before they got even further out of hand. Wesker felt as though he was a pawn in somebody else's twisted game, and he ground his teeth until he felt the ache in his jaw. Too many things were happening at once, going all the way back to Chris' contamination with the T-103 parasite. Wait – the parasite. Wesker's thoughts whirled. It couldn't be.

Unable to control his fury Wesker slammed his fist into the bulwark, breaking off a massive chunk of cinderblock that went spiraling away, end over end, to the parking lot far below. It hit with a muted crash that rang in Wesker's ears as he stood there with his fists clenched, trying not to scream.


	27. Chapter 27: My Name is Death

Chapter 26: My Name is Death

Sitting on the tile with her back against the wall, Jill came to the realization that the only thing she could rely on tonight was the heavy revolver between her hands. A laugh rose within her, only when it reached her lips it sounded more like a sob. The hallway was clogged with people, overflow that couldn't be fit into any of the rooms, so Jill had found herself a place between a fake plant and a gurney, her knees pulled as close to her chest as she could manage. Hospital equipment beeped and whistled all around her, accompanied by the occasional crackle of a radio:

"_**10-36, do you copy? Second floor is now secure." **_

"_**What's the situation on the ground?"**_

"_**Camera feeds are picking up over twenty of those things. Aside from that, nothing."**_

"…_**Any survivors?"**_

"_**A few pockets right now – mostly in Radiology."**_

"_**Copy that." **_

Jill took a moment to let the information process in her mind. _Twenty confirmed sightings – that's a lot more than the two I put down in the lobby. It's spreading fast. _She swallowed a lump in her throat. The hospital was only three floors high and relatively medium for its size, obtaining most of its square footage by spreading out in width instead of height. From what she could gather it employed a maximum number of five security guards, which didn't leave enough firepower to attempt any kind of rescue without outside help from the police department. Jill's initial feeling of being trapped was turning out to be oddly prophetic. With the first floor compromised and Critical Care festering like a tumor, they were left stranded like refugees on a floating island. And if Jill had learned anything from Raccoon City, those precious islands only lasted for so long. If the doors gave out…

Jill reached into her purse and pulled out a handful of bullets. She looked at them for a minute, letting them clink together in her palm. Standard .9mm hollow points designed to squash upon impact, they could blast an exit wound the size of an egg. The thought was a comforting one, and Jill wondered what kind of person that made her. _Ex-paramilitary with issues_, she thought dryly. _Serious issues._

With the long ease of practice, Jill cracked the cylinder on her revolver and let the empty shells clatter to the floor before loading the new rounds one at a time. The familiar motion felt good, and it soothed her frazzled nerves. She thought of Chris and winced. How Wesker had managed to evade getting shot, she didn't know. She hadn't even seen the man move before the gun had gone off, and she wondered if he'd really known that it had put Chris out of ammo. He'd certainly seemed confident enough to turn his back.

_Arrogant bastard._ And he made it look so easy, too.

With a flick of her wrist, Jill popped the cylinder back into place. She let her head fall back against the wall and closed her eyes. The world around her was teetering on the brink of hell, but all she felt was an iron-like sense of calm. The fear was still there, lurking at the edges of her composure, but now it was only a reminder to keep on edge. She wasn't the same person that had stumbled into the Spencer Estate. None of them were. _And yet_ _here we are, together again in more or less the same situation, _she thought, tasting the irony of that statement. It was if no matter how hard they tried to forget, how hard they tried to break free, some inescapable karma doomed them to exist as tiny planets caught in a decaying orbit around a sun manifested as Albert Wesker.

"_How can you even stand there after what you did? You don't have the right to care anymore!" _

"_You're right, but that does not change the fact that I am here. I don't recall asking you to trust me."_

Truer words had never been spoken. More was going on here than just the obvious, and Jill let herself acknowledge the fact that she was glad that Chris hadn't succeeded in killing Wesker. She didn't know why. If anything she should have felt the exact opposite, but she didn't and she was confused enough already without trying to dupe herself into believing otherwise. _And I'll take responsibility for whatever that decision gets me, _thought Jill. She took a deep breath, her thoughts interrupted as a wheelchair went clattering by, and she opened her eyes to make sure she was still out of everybody's way. The television monitor across the hall slowly increased in volume, a nurse urging their coworkers to come and see.

"…_**with the scene reminiscent of the viral outbreak in Raccoon City over two years ago, police are setting up barricades around the affected areas."**_Jill got to her feet, the television suddenly the focus of her attention. The news anchor was standing in front of a wall of police cruisers, her face lighting up with alternating flashes of blue and red. Behind the barricade, a wall of smoke and fire – and several shambling figures. _**"Initial descriptions of an explosion have now been confirmed, but there is no news as of yet on how this deadly virus emerged. People are now being evacuated from the surrounding area and are advised to get as far away from downtown Harvardville as possible."**_

Jill felt cold. _The outbreak came from outside,_ she realized, the information taking a moment to sink in. _The people in Critical Care must have been exposed to the virus before they were brought here. No wonder the first floor gave out so fast. _Jill tried to remember how many hospitals were in the immediate area and was relived to come up with only one, unless of course they'd flown some to neighboring Denver. Her mouth suddenly felt as dry as cotton. She turned to look for a vending machine, tucking the revolver into the back of her jeans. Further down the hall, the stairwell door swung open – barely missing a young nurse.

Chris muttered an apology without meeting her gaze, shivering and rubbing his arms. His stubbled cheeks were ashen, blotched a feverish red around his nose and eyes. Jill opened her mouth to call out to him, but as she did a feeling of anxiety came over her and the words shriveled in her throat. She'd seen the way Chris had glared at her, his expression bordering on something close to complete hatred. He was so on edge right now, Jill had a feeling her presence would only make things worse. She dropped her arm, suddenly not wishing to be seen as Chris looked back and forth a few times, his gaze latching onto the TV where Heather Eisley was still narrating the scene downtown.

"Dis is insane, man," said a voice. "I moved outta LA to get away from de crazy shit!"

Jill's eyes slid to the left, noticing the security guard from before standing next to Chris. Watching them out of the corner of her eye, she quietly fished some spare change out of her pocket and after an inordinate amount of rattling the machine finally dropped a bottle of water into the slot. Chris hardly spared the man a glance. In fact he seemed almost irritated by the attempt at conversation. Shrugging, the security guard stuck a hand in his pocket and dug out a crumpled pack of smokes, propping his riot shotgun against the counter. It was the snap of his lighter that finally got Chris' attention, giving Jill a better view of his face. He looked as though he'd aged ten years in just the last couple of hours.

"Hey. Mind if I bum one of those?" he asked gruffly.

The security guard exhaled a cloud of smoke and flicked one of the cigarettes up for Chris to take. "Ya, man. Have two if it makes ya feel better." He handed Chris the lighter.

"Thanks," Chris muttered, sticking the Marlboro in his mouth. For a moment he seemed to notice Jill standing near the vending machine, but he immediately looked away, his expression darkening to a menacing scowl. Jill swallowed and uncapped the bottle she was holding, draining almost half of it in one gulp. _What am I going to say to him? I have to say something eventually…_

"De name's Mike Byrd, by de way," said the security guard, "but ya can call me Jay."

"Thanks, but I didn't ask," Chris snapped. There was a slightly awkward pause, then: "Chris Redfield," he grunted, almost apologetically. He took a long drag and coughed. Jay eyed him carefully.

"Ya look like shit, man."

"Well, maybe that's cause I feel like shit," said Chris scathingly.

"Join de club. It's free admission," said Jay. He returned his gaze to the TV where the mayor was in the middle of announcing a state of emergency for the city, promising that every available measure would be taken. Jill wondered if that meant the National Guard or another nuclear bomb. She suppressed a bitter snort. The mayor of Raccoon City had been a coward who'd regularly lined with pockets with Umbrella's dirty money in the years before the outbreak, only to leave the city to rot when its citizens needed him the most. And Harvardville's own Stephen Queen – a man in his sixties whose only notable achievement, at least in Jill's mind, was to light up the media with his extramarital affairs – didn't inspire her confidence in the slightest.

She rolled the chilled bottle of water between her palms, wondering when she'd become so cynical. _Let's think… Oh, maybe it was when my Captain – who I'm actually sort of quasi-trusting right now, that's how screwed up I am – left us to die in some madman's funhouse. Or maybe it was when Raccoon City went to hell. It's all so hard to decide! _Her internal voice was almost cheerful, only it wasn't funny in the slightest. Jill downed the rest of the water and threw the bottle in the trash. Chris had taken his dose of Reality to the extreme, but the lesson had been a brutal one to learn for everybody. It was a wonder they weren't all alcoholics or drug addicts.

Chris pulled deeply on his cigarette, probably thinking the same thing as the television went back to a live feed of Heather Eisley crouched behind a police cruiser, dirty snow piled up around her patent leather heels. In the distance, Jill heard the muffled staccato of gunfire. _**"As you can hear, the police are now treating the situation as a full-blown terrorist attack," **_Eisley told them. The electricity flickered, the fluorescents browning, and Jill's eyes snapped up to stare at the ceiling. _**"However, radio communication IS limited due to unknown reasons, and scattered reports suggest that this is not the only area affected by the Raccoon City virus. Anyone with further information is urged to call–"**_

The television cut out as the hallway was thrown into sudden darkness. Jill startled violently as somebody down the hall screamed. Momentarily blinded she instinctively fumbled for her revolver, her heart jammed into her throat. Somewhere nearby she heard Jay shouting to be heard over the sudden confusion. "Na'body panic! Give a minute and de generators will kick in–"

The electricity blinked back on, a low hum resonating up from somewhere far below. Jay smiled nervously. "See? Nothin' to worry about."

In a detached way, Jill realized how strange it was to _hear _something go wrong. It started as a raspy buzz, the lights faltering like toys trying their damndest to function on dying batteries. Jill held her breath. _Please stay on, please stay on… _She should have known better than to expect any divine intervention at this point. The fluorescents stuttered for several tense seconds before going out entirely. For a moment everything was completely silent, and then everybody started moving at once. Phones, watches and iPods flared into existence up and down the hall as people used what they had as makeshift flashlights. Jill took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to quell the urge to panic. Hospital staff was rushing everywhere as a new reality began to solidify itself. The power was out, and with it every piece of life-saving equipment.

Industrial-size flashlights finally started clicking on as the doctors hurried from one room to the next identifying the patients in need of care. Chris seized hold of Jay's arm, his shadow black and hulking. "What about the doors?" he demanded.

Jay shook his head. "What? Dey should stay locked."

"Are you _sure?_"

"Pretty sure, but if dem generators don't come back online, dat is gonna be one of the least of our problems." He shook out of Chris' grip and grabbed his radio. "Jason, code four, do you copy? We need dem generators back online. Over." Jill sidled closer to listen to the conversation, the dark hallway covering her approach.

"_**Code four affirmative. Tim and Karen are on their way right now." **_

"Dat's not enough, man!" Jay exclaimed. In the castoff light, his dark skin had taken on the exact shade of old, curdled coffee. "Tim's 200 pounds, and Karen's just a baby. Isn't dere anyone else ya can send?"

"_**Negative. Look, I know it's not ideal, but they're all we've got left. I can't leave dispatch."**_

"What about SWAT? De _are_ coming, right?"

There was a long pause. _**"I don't know,"**_ the man on the radio admitted, albeit reluctantly. _**"I've**_ _**been trying to get in contact with them for over an hour and they're not responding. I think the department might have gotten hit. We're just going to have to handle things on our own for now. Over."**_

"No kiddin'. But there's gotta be somebody…" Jay trailed off, thinking hard. Jill had a terrible feeling she knew what was going to happen, like a fever prickle on the back of her neck. She starting praying, begging every deity that was listening.

"I'll do it," said Chris suddenly. "I'll go."

Jill squeezed her eyes shut and cursed.

Jay took his finger off the radio, surprised. "Heh, thanks for de offer, big man, but you're not exactly qualified."

"The hell I am," said Chris, his voice hardening. He dropped his cigarette to the floor and ground it out, his eyes burning. "Trust me, I've handled this kind of shit before. You have to stay up here and protect all these people in case those doors give out."

Jay gave him a look. "Ya don't think I know dat? Look, I appreciate ya offering, but dis ain't no time to be Batman. De generators are all de way down in the sub-basement, through all dem–"

"Undead motherfuckers. So what else is new?" Chris snapped. "Just give me a gun and point me in the right direction. I'll do what I can."

Jay said nothing for a long time. Somewhere down the hall, an old woman went into cardiac arrest and her doctor yelled for an oxygen bag while he did chest compressions. Jay mopped his brow with his sleeve, caught right between the proverbial rock and hard place. At last, however, he relented just as Jill knew he would.

"…Okay, man. It's your call. Here," he handed Chris the radio, then reached over and picked up his shotgun. "Take dis with ya."

"Won't you be needing it?" Chris asked.

"I got my piece and my backup weapon. I'll be fine."

"Chris, are you insane?" Jill demanded suddenly. "You can't do something like this by yourself!"

Chris leveled a venomous glare in her direction. "And who's gonna help me? You?" He snorted and cocked the shotgun with one hand, hefting the weapon as though it were made of plastic. "Go to hell."

Jill bit her tongue, forcing herself not to take it personal. Chris was about as stable as a box of homemade firecrackers right now. His reaction was understandable, and who knows? Maybe she deserved it. But she'd be damned if she just let him waltz into a zombie apocalypse just to prove a point. She set her purse on the counter and emptied the rest of shells into her pockets, cocking her revolver with a dull _snap_. "I'm already in hell," she told him icily. "And you're not going alone."

Chris roughly knocked past her. "I'm already alone," he growled. He opened the stairwell door and hesitated, glancing upstairs with an ugly scowl. Jill could almost hear his thoughts and she couldn't say she liked the odds of Wesker versus a 12-gauge shotgun. If it came to that, she wasn't going to throw her life away for the man, regardless of any qualms she might have, but after a tense moment Chris went down the stairs, his natural tendency to do the right thing momentarily outweighing his need for personal revenge. If tonight was a game he was determined to win just out of spite, at least until he got close enough to cram Wesker's evil plans right up his evil ass.

Jay nervously rubbed the back of his neck. "Should I tell Wes–"

"Better not," said Jill sharply, cutting him off. "He's probably busy." With that, she shouldered through the stairwell after Chris and hurried to catch up. It was as if the world was sliding out from under her on a greased incline, and all she could do was scrabble on her hands and knees until she came to the inevitable bottom. 

* * *

><p>"<em>Conseguirla!<em>"

There was a muted thud from downstairs and Claire sprang back from the window, her heart beating fast. _What in the hell?_ It sounded as though someone was using their fists to hammer on the door. And they weren't knocking, either, instead beating out the slow, relentless tempo of an insane man pounding on the door of his asylum.

_Thud. Thud-thud. THUD. _

Somewhere below, the front door flew open so hard it crashed against the wall. Claire heard a picture frame shatter. Her thoughts whirled frantically. _What do these people want? Did they follow me? Why on earth would they __**follow**__ me?_ Claire instincts tingled, raising the hair on the back of her neck. She thought of the priest she'd spoken to in the hospital lobby, and then again watching her brother with almost demented intensity. Claire heard footsteps on the stairs and in an instant it didn't matter who they were.

They'd broken down her door, which was breaking and entering. And that meant she could deal with them however she damn well pleased. Bounding across the room, Claire pulled open the nightstand and felt around inside the drawer. Near the back her hand encountered the cold butt of a Luger. Pulling it out, she popped the safety and strode to the door. She didn't bother checking to see if it was loaded. Chris _always_ kept his firearms loaded – you know, just in case he caught Wesker trying to heave himself through the window at 2:00 o'clock in the morning. Again, movement on the stairs.

"_Morir es vivir… morir es vivir…"_

Claire took a deep breath and spun out into the hallway, the Luger trained at the top of the stairs. One of the priests had just reached the upper floor. "Stop right there!" Claire hollered. _Give him a chance to surrender… they don't know I'm armed. _

The priest gave no indication he even heard her, his movements deliberate but unnaturally slow. His skin looked like ash in the low grey light, his head lolling ever so slightly. Claire wondered if he was drunk. He certainly seemed unfazed by the gun she was holding. Doubt crept in Claire's brain. Was she really going to shoot this man? She'd only killed the infected before, people that were already dead. What would she tell the police?

"I said stop!"

No effect. Claire fired a warning shot, the round punching through the man's left knee. The sound he made was as unnatural as his movements, more of a hoarse gasp than the scream of pain she would have expected. He clutched at his knee with both hands, writhing–

–and then he straightened, coming towards her again despite the blood soaking his robes. Claire gaped in openmouthed astonishment. She remembered something her brother had mentioned once about drug addicts not being able to feel pain. _What the hell? They shooting smack during mass? _Claire realized she no longer had a choice. She steadied her aim again and squeezed the trigger, sending another shot through the man's head. With a soft groan, he slid down to his knees before collapsing in a motionless heap.

Claire grimaced and moved quickly down the hall, stopping just long enough to toe the corpse. It didn't move, so she left it alone. The other two priests were at the bottom of the stairs, moving swiftly up. Claire raised the Luger and fired, two rounds punching through the chest of the first. Without pausing, Claire switched her aim and sent a third bullet through the next man's eye. With a raspy howl, he bent to clutch at his face.

Time froze, wobbling for a moment – and then both men continued to climb the stairs.

Claire's chest tightened in dismay, staring the gaping, bloody hole where the priest's eye used to be. _That- that's impossible! I don't care how many drugs they're on!_ All the horrific incidents she'd survived over the years flooded her thoughts, her mind reeling. But these men weren't zombies, at least like none she'd ever seen before. Their movements weren't normal, but neither were they the careful shuffling of a corpse reanimated by the T-virus. Something was very wrong. The closest priest lunged at her, one arm raised above his head.

Light flashed along the edge of a blade.

Claire leapt back with a gasp and the knife grazed the banister, gouging the wood. She kicked out hard, her height on the stairs giving her the advantage, and the heel of her cowboy boot connected with a satisfying _crunch_. The priest's head whipped to the side, his nose exploding in a spray of blood, and Claire put the gun point blank against his temple. The shot was muffled by his thick hood, ruining the wallpaper as the man's skull exploded in blood and bits of bone. He dropped to the stairs with a dull thump, tangling under the man behind him.

Claire lifted the muzzle of the Luger and fired. This time the bullets did their job. Thick, mushy gore leapt into the air as the third priest rolled back down the stairs. Silence. Claire exhaled slowly and after a moment she cautiously came down the stairs, weapon trained on the bodies crumpled on the bottom landing. A freezing wind whipped across the side of her face. She turned her head. The front door stood wide open. _Where's the other one?_

_There._

The red-robed priest was standing on the porch, observing her. Suddenly he began to move, coming at her with an unnatural loping stride. Claire fired twice, directly into his forehead, and he staggered, his jaw lolling open to display unnaturally bright red gums. He lurched for her, pale hands almost grazing her wrists as she leapt out of reach and fired again. _Three rounds and still nothing?! What the hell is going on?_ She clubbed him hard with the side of the gun and ducked, unwilling to let herself be cornered. The front door was at her back now, the cold draft lifting the hairs on the back of her neck. The Luger had a small clip; she had maybe two shots left. If those didn't put the bastard down there was still a heavy aluminum bat near the door, she rationalized.

She lifted the gun again–

–and the front window exploded in a spray of glass. Claire yelped and leapt back as a hail of bullets tore through the living room, shattering everything in their path. The priest jerked as though he were having a seizure, bloody mist leaping into the air as the rounds tore a line across his front. He toppled back and hit the carpet with a dull thud, limbs splayed at every conceivable angle. Claire wanted to scream, but she didn't get the chance. Something moved behind her and she hastily squirreled away from the door, flattening her back against the opposite wall. Had those bullets been meant for her and simply missed? Or had somebody come to help? Ever pragmatic, some part of Claire's brain wondered what kind of "help" came packing an automatic.

Breathing hard, she pointed the Luger at the door as a man stepped into the house. He was tall and dark-haired, dressed neatly in black fatigues. He swept the TMP he was carrying back and forth, finally spotting Claire. She tightened her hold on the gun. _Twitch, you bastard. Twitch and I swear…_

"Easy," the man said, lowering his weapon. Lowered, Claire noticed, but not put away. She made no move to respond in kind. The man gave her an even look, almost as if he were studying her. "I'm here to help," he added calmly. "Albert Wesker sent me."

_Wesker?_ Claire blinked, the muzzle of the Luger dipping slightly. She quickly raised it back up. Her skin felt clammy, freezing in the cold draft. She repressed a shiver. "Yeah… sure looks that way," she said slowly, nodding at the dead priest. "But if you think I'm just going to trust you after all this, you've got another thing coming."

The stranger smiled, his mouth tilting up at the corner. "Smart of you, Red, but then again…" he moved suddenly, one hand atop the Luger before Claire could even think of responding. In an instant, she watched him disengage the slide from the rest of the gun, spilling several springs and a bright, brassy shell onto the carpet.

"You don't have much of a choice," he finished calmly.

Claire's mouth formed a silent O of disbelief. He'd pulled the gun apart with one hand. With. One. Hand. The act itself was about as cool as it was impossible to comprehend. She looked at the useless piece of metal she was clutching. _Well, maybe I can still throw it in his face,_ she thought weakly. She lowered her hands to the sides. "What do you want, then?" she asked.

"My orders were to keep an eye on you, so I suggest you finish whatever you were doing here. You've got…" the stranger looked at his watch, "three minutes and counting."

"But how did you–"

"Two minutes, fifty eight seconds."

Claire snapped her mouth shut. She moved sideways, slowly at first, slipping around the dead bodies piled haphazard at the bottom of the stairs. The stranger watched her for a moment, then switched his attention to the priest in the red cassock. He frowned at the corpse for a moment, then put the toe of his combat boot aside the man's chin, roughly flipping his head to the side. His jaw lolled and fell slack, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. The stranger nodded to himself, satisfied. The plain casualness of it gave Claire a chill.

She hurried upstairs to calculate her options. Had Wesker really sent the man? She had no real way of knowing, which didn't leave her that many options. Claire thought of the upstairs bathroom window. It wouldn't be all that hard to escape out onto the roof and get the hell out of Dodge. She thought it was a good plan, too, until she remembered the crazy priests had successfully trapped her in the driveway by double-parking. Claire sucked in a breath, thinking fast. The stranger downstairs was obviously a professional, which fit Wesker's usual MO, but that didn't answer the question on how Wesker knew she'd need help to begin with. As far as she knew, physic powers weren't listed under "rare but serious viral side-effects".

_He must have known something was wrong, _Claire realized, thinking back. _Him not wanting me to come up here had nothing to do with ice on the road, did it? Why didn't he just tell me?_

She leaned against the wall, pushing loose strands of hair out of her eyes. The house felt cold and empty, darkness clinging to every corner. In her desperation to think of anything that would help, Claire suddenly remembered the stranger she'd noticed following Chris around at the hospital. It was the combat boots that gave him away, she realized, certain it was the same man downstairs. But was that a good thing? The day was getting more complicated by the minute. Seized by a sudden inspiration, Claire hurried into the bedroom and plucked the spare phone from its cradle, but the line was completely dead._ Shit, how could I forget? _No electricity meant no phone, unless she wanted to go digging in the closet for one that didn't need plugged in.

"One minute thirty seconds," called a voice from below.

Claire grit her teeth. She tossed the phone back onto the nightstand. What should she do? But even as she wondered, she realized she didn't have much of a choice. The stranger had made one thing abundantly clear: if he meant her harm, there wasn't anything she could do, and in any case Claire got the feeling that her mysterious "savior" wasn't used to being contradicted. She looked at the half-empty suitcase she'd begun to pack. It seemed pretty silly now and she swallowed a grimace, throwing several articles of clothing into the suitcase without bothering to fold them. _All this for Chris' goddamn jeans,_ she seethed, regretting ever leaving the hospital. She viciously slammed the lid and dragged the suitcase down the stairs with as much noise as she could muster – if only to have something to vent her frustration.

She found the stranger lounging against the kitchen counter with his hand buried in a box of Nabisco wafers. Claire stopped short, staring at him with nothing short of pure, bemused disbelief. Without giving any indication that he'd even noticed her, the stranger put another handful into his mouth and casually flipped the kitchen drawer open with a finger, the quintessential nosy neighbor. He raised an eyebrow and reached inside, pulling a tiny revolver out from between the butter knives. Claire felt an embarrassed laugh rise in her throat as he popped the cylinder.

"Loaded, too. You expecting company, Red?"

Claire snorted and stood the suitcase up at her side. The wheels had left crimson tracks on the linoleum from where she'd pulled it through the puddle of blood at the bottom of the stairs. It struck her as incredibly funny for some reason, which she supposed fit right in with the rest of today's insanity. "Yeah, angry blonds," she said dryly. "Your car or mine?"

The stranger closed the revolver and lobbed it in her direction. Claire caught it one-handed, looking at him oddly. "Just in case Jehovah's Witnesses come back," he said, putting the Nabisco'son the counter. He took a few steps towards her, paused, then backed up and took the box anyway. "I'm taking these."

Claire wondered if things could get possibly any weirder. "Knock yourself out," she muttered, standing aside to let him pass. She wiped her sweaty hands on her jeans, the low buzz of adrenaline still coursing through her veins. Bizarre humor aside, she didn't feel all that good. The house felt colder than ever, filling with the faint coppery reek of blood. And something else… something musky and rotten, like an infected wound. Claire hurried after the stranger, following him to a silver Jeep parked behind the congregation of vehicles in the driveway. Good thing she hadn't gone for the escape plan.

"How long were you following me?" she asked, shivering.

"Throw your stuff in the back."

_That's not what I asked,_ thought Claire sourly, but she did what she was told. She climbed in the front seat, resisting the urge to rub her arms for warmth. The Jeep smelled like Febreze and new upholstery, obviously a rental picked up in town. The stranger hopped in beside her and turned the key, backing out of the driveway without preamble. Claire nervously buckled her seatbelt as they sped down the freeway, snow churning in their wake. As they drove, the stranger settled his TMP on his lap and crammed the box of Nabisco's upright beside the gearshift. Rolling her eyes at the sheer absurdity of it all, Claire propped her elbow on the door, watching the forest whip by at what seemed to be breakneck speed.

_He must have been following me since the hospital,_ she concluded after some thought. _Or did he follow the priests? How the hell did I miss two cars tailing me all the way up the mountain? _The thought irritated Claire to no end. Had she really been that distracted, or had they simply hung back far enough not to draw attention to themselves? It seemed like all she had was questions.

"Who were those people?" she asked suddenly, unable to contain herself any longer.

The stranger continued to munch his Nabisco's in silence.

"You must have some idea," Claire pressed. "Wesker sent you, after all, so he had to know something."

The stranger shrugged. "Mr. Wesker chose not to share the details when he expressed his concerns for your safety," he told Claire. "Before we arrived at the airport, I received my orders to guard your brother while he was convalescing, and then to guard you after you left. I'm not paid to ask questions, but whatever his reasons, it seems that they were well founded."

"Yeah, I got that part, but still…"

"You're over-thinking it, Red. Just sit back and enjoy the drive." The stranger popped another handful of Nabisco's into his mouth and downshifted, maneuvering the Jeep around a particularly icy corner. _Just enjoy the drive, he says, _thought Claire, bracing herself against the door. _Why not? It's not like I'm in the car with a guy I don't know, who claims to be working for Wesker, who's driving one-handed while stuffing his face with cookies. What's not to enjoy? _

She wondered if the people that had attacked her had meant to kill her, or whether their plan had been to try and take her alive. To where she didn't know, and quite frankly she didn't want to. More importantly, why had it taken so long for them to _die_? Claire reran the incident over and over in her mind, trying to come up with a reason, any at all, that would explain what she had seen.

"Those men. There was something wrong with them," she said slowly. "I put an entire clip in them and they just kept coming at me." She just had to say something. It was driving her crazy just trying to rationalize how such a thing was possible because in all honestly it scared her. She'd dealt with zombies before, but at least those things had the common decency to die when you put a round through their brains. Those priests, obviously not so much.

The stranger glanced at her sideways. "T-Virus?" he asked in a low voice.

"I thought so at first, but they were still alive, I'm sure of it. I mean, I heard a few of them actually talk!" Not that she'd understood a word of what had been said, but that was beside the point. She wondered what language they'd been using. Latin, or maybe Spanish? The Church of Los Iluminados was Spanish, right?

"And I put a couple of rounds through their heads, too, so it's not like I just missed the bastards," Claire added, not wanting the stranger to think that'd she just been pissing herself and launching bullets into the ceiling. "You encountered anything like that before?"

"Only in certain BOWs," said the stranger, obviously deep in thought. Claire opened her mouth to point out that they hadn't been Tyrants, but changed her mind. It was pretty obvious that they weren't. She returned her gaze to the forest, feeling as though the Earth was wobbling on its axis and threatening to whip her off into space like a speck of flotsam. It wasn't a nice feeling at all. She wondered what she'd do if her Nabisco-eating bodyguard did anything strange, like not going back to Harvardville. _I'll put a bullet in the side of his head for one,_ she thought. _I'll betcha he dies like a normal person. _

Only in her life would a statement like that make sense. She furtively observed the stranger out of the corner of his eye. His dark hair had flecks of grey near the temples, which meant he was most likely a little older than younger. Claire eyed the TMP in his lap. _Not something everybody has access to,_ she mused. Chris had tried to obtain one a couple years ago, but the Feds tended to frown on such purchases no matter how hard people tried to convince them that the chairman of Umbrella was a madman bent on world domination.

_Well, he got the world domination part right, anyway,_ thought Claire. _God, help me._

God was apparently on His tropical vacation, however. Forty-five minutes later, and no more than a few miles outside the city, Claire and her mysterious stranger ran straight into bumper-to-bumper traffic. The highway was packed, the storm beating down on the huddled cars as if determined to bury them where they sat. Horns honked and squealed, and people were sticking their heads out of windows for no other reason than to flash each other the bird. Claire huffed a breath. "Well, isn't this typical," she muttered. She wondered if it was a holiday. How close were they to Thanksgiving, again?

The stranger said nothing. For the first couple of minutes he simply started at the traffic with a frown. Ten minutes after that, he began drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. And five minutes after that, Claire wondered if he was just going to roll the window down and start spraying bullets into the oncoming lane. Not that he did or said anything to indicate that he would. The man simply sat there, as cold as anyone could be while fishing out the last crumbs of Nabisco's, but Claire could feel him simmering under the surface – an icy blue flame just waiting for gasoline. She eyed him again as he put on a tiny earpiece, the cord trailing away to a radio stashed somewhere under his coat. Yes, that described him perfectly, she decided. It was just that he was so used to killing, so used to being an absolute professional, that it'd become as easy as breathing. And snacking on the job wasn't all that odd, now was it?

"We need to get off," the stranger said suddenly. His voice was sharper now, harder, carrying none of the would-be casual tone he'd been using before. Claire couldn't imagine what could have caused it. She gave him a worried look. "Why?" she asked.

She didn't get an answer. After another five minutes inching through traffic the stranger pulled the Jeep off at the nearest exit, parking them sideways in front of a mini mart. He got out of the car and Claire followed without thinking, popping the door to stand beside the Jeep. He was listening intently to something on the radio, ignoring her attempts to get his attention. Claire scowled and looked into the press of traffic. The closest set of wheels belonged to a tiny European model that most vehicles could run over without looking back. A young man was driving, constantly reaching over to try and console the baby strapped in the carseat next to him. The poor guy looked absolutely terrified and Claire smothered a laugh. She wondered if it was his first time out with the baby.

The wind kicked up, hurling snow into her face, and her gaze wandered. Everybody in traffic looked horrified, she realized after a moment. She looked harder, certain that she'd just imagined it, but no – everywhere she could see signs of panic. Crying kids, pale mothers, teenagers leaning frantically on the horn. Claire whirled around to face the stranger. "What's going on?" she demanded.

He gave her an expressionless look.

"I mean it," Claire growled. "Tell me what's going on!"

There was a slight pause, then the stranger casually unplugged his earpiece. Claire listened intently as the radio squelched, sounding hopelessly small and metallic against the noise from the highway. _**"Dispatch, can you confirm? Can you confirm, dammit? Where's my backup?!"**_

The radio switched, scanning multiple channels. _**"Fall back! Fall back now! Erin!"**_ The transmission dissolved into screaming static. The channel switched again to gunfire and more screaming. Claire's tongue felt welded to the roof of her mouth, her heartbeat thudding in her ears. Words and phrases came to her in bursts, howling out of the confusion like flaming brands: _Retreat. Overrun. Fire. Spreading. Raccoon City virus. _

Claire felt her world shatter like a broken mirror.

The stranger looked up; his eyes traveling up the nearby hill. Suddenly he was moving, weaving between the snow-covered pines. Claire stumbled after him as fast as she could, but the hill was steep, the snow piled over a foot deep in some places. Once she tripped and fell, catching herself on a tree. The stranger kept going. _This cannot be happening. I must've heard wrong,_ thought Claire, the icy cold air searing the back of her throat. She shoved away from the tree and fought her way to where the stranger was standing at the top of the hill.

The land fell away steeply before them, the granite mountain dropping away into a bowl-shaped valley. The sun was almost set, leaving everything bleak and cold. Harvardville spread out in the valley below, a few thousand lights glittering somberly in the darkness. Huge swatches of the city were completely black as though something had just eaten them away. A bitter wind sliced through Claire's sweater and she clutched the edges of her vest more tightly around her, her breath misting in the air. _Fire, _she realized numbly. _The city is on fire._

Entire blocks were engulfed by flame, bright orange and blazing, crowned by billowing clouds of smoke. The chaos of nearby traffic drifted to her on the breeze, and Claire realized the gridlock stretched all the way back into the city, headlights glowing like a necklace of dirty yellow diamonds. She shuddered hard, listening to the panicked broadcasts still coming from the stranger's radio. She heard someone mention the Raccoon City virus again, the words hitting her like a hammer blow to the skull, and this time they sunk in. She shook her head, trying to deny the impossible reality manifesting around her.

The stranger turned away grimly. "Get back to the car."

Claire slid back down the hill in a daze. She felt nothing. Not fear, not panic. Nothing. Just cold. She staggered out into the parking lot, the heels of her cowboy boots clacking on the cold pavement. Her jeans were soaked past her calves, caked with mud and snow. Claire looked at them for a moment as the roar of idling engines and wailing horns faded into the background. The air in her lungs was heavy with the smell of car exhaust and frozen pine. _I- I don't know what to do. Is this really happening? _There was no other explanation for what'd she'd heard. And with this realization a new and frightening thought crashed through her. Harvardville Memorial was right in the middle of ground zero.

Her head cleared, the fog sheared away as though by a scalpel. Stiff and clumsy, Claire hurried after the stranger, reaching him just as he opened the trunk of the Jeep. A black duffle she hadn't noticed before was thrown in back alongside her suitcase. A flood of questions rose to her lips, and was immediately silenced as he unzipped the heavy bag. Claire blinked, unable to do anything but watch as the stranger buckled himself into a full-body harness loaded with magazine clips, pouches, and carabineers – enough to wage a small war. Flash grenades dangled from his belt like weird metallic fruit. "Who are you?"Claire whispered.

The stranger took out a gasmask with red lenses and pulled it over his face.

"They call me Mr. Death."


End file.
